SPECIMENS 


or 


EIG-LISH  DRAMATIC  POETS, 


WHO    LIVED 


ABOUT    THE    TIME    OF    SHAKSPEARE. 


WITH     NOTES. 


BY    CHARLES    LAMB 


NEW    EDITION,    COMPLETE    IN    ONE    VOLUME. 


NEW    YORK: 
GEORGE    P .    PUTNAM,    155    BROADWAY 

1851. 


• .  «     • 


I       i         i 


:: 

•  •  •  < 


a\'1 


& 


PREFACE 


More  than  a  third  part  of  the  following  specimens  are 
from  plays  which  are  to  be  found  only  in  the  British  Mu- 
seum and  in  some  scarce  private  libraries.  The  rest  are 
from  Dodsley's  and  Hawkins's  collections,  and  the  works  of 
Jonson,  Beaumont  and  Fletcher,  and  Massinger. 

1  have  chosen  wherever  I  could  to  give  entire  scenes,  and 
in  some  instances  successive  scenes,  rather  than  to  string- 
together  single  passages  and  detached  beauties,  which  1 
have  always  found  wearisome  in  the  reading  in  selections 
of  this  nature. 

To  every  extract  is  prefixed  an  explanatory  head,  suffi- 
cient to  make  it  intelligible  with  the  help  of  some  trifling 
omissions.  Where  a  line  or  more  was  obscure,  as  having 
reference  to  something  that  had  gone  before,  which  would 
have  asked  more  time  to  explain  than  its  consequence  in 
the  scene  seemed  to  deserve,  I  have  had  no  hesitation  in 
leaving  the  line  or  passage  out.  Sometimes  where  I  have 
met  with  a  superfluous  character,  which  seemed  to  burthen 
without  throwing  any  light  upon  the  scene,  I  have  ventured 
to  dismiss  it  altogether.  I  have  expunged,  without  cere- 
mony, all  that  which  the  writers  bid  better  never  have 
written,  that  forms  the  objection  so  often  repeated  to  the 
promiscuous  reading  of  Fletcher.  Massinger,  and  some 
others. 

The  kind  of  extracts  which  I  have  sought  alter  have  been, 
not  so  much  passages  of  wit  and  humor,  though  the  old 
plays  are  rich  in  such,  as  scenes  of  passion,  sometimes  of 


r3'J 


ri  PRKi    \(  E. 


the  deepest  quality,  interesting  situations,  serious  descrip- 
tions, that  which  is  more  nearly  allied  to  poetry  than  to 
wit,  and  to  tragic  rather  than  comic  poetry.  The  plays 
which  I  have  made  choice  of  have  been,  with  few  excep- 
tions, those  which  treat  of  human  life  and  manners,  rather 
than  masques,  and  Arcadian  pastorals,  with  their  train  of 
abstractions,  unimpassioned  deities,  passionate  mortals,  Cla- 
ius,  and  Medorus,  and  Amintas,  and  Amarillis.  My  leading 
design  has  been,  to  illustrate  what  may  be  called  the  moral 
sense  of  our  ancestors.  To  show  in  what  manner  they 
felt,  when  they  placed  themselves  by  the  power  of  imagina- 
tion in  trying  situations,  in  the  conflicts  of  duty  and  passion. 
or  the  strife  of  contending  duties  ;  what  sort  of  loves  and 
enmities  theirs  were  ;  how  their  griefs  were  tempered,  and 
their  full-swoln  joys  abated  :  how  much  of  Shakspeare 
shines  in  the  great  men  his  contemporaries,  and  how  far  in 
his  divine  mind  and  manners  he  surpassed  them  and  all 
mankind. 

Another  object  which  I  had  in  making  these  selections 
was,  to  bring  together  the  most  admired  scenes  in  Fletcher 
ami  Massimrer,  in  the  estimation  of  the  world  the  only  dra- 
matic  poets  of  that  age  who  are  entitled  to  be  considered 
after  Shakspeare,  and  to  exhibit  them  in  the  same  volume 
with  the  more  impressive  scenes  of  old  Marlowe,  Hcy- 
wood,  Tourneur,  Webster,  Ford,  and  others.  To  show 
what  we  have  slighted,  while  beyond  all  proportion  we  have 
cried  up  one  or  two  favorite  names. 

The  specimens  are  not  accompanied  with  anything  in 
the  shape  of  biographical  notices.*  I  had  nothing  of  con- 
sequence to  add  to  the  slight  sketches  in  Dodsley  and  the 
Biographica  Dramatica,  and  I  was  unwilling  to  swell  the 
volume  with  mere  transcription.  The  reader  will  not  fail 
to  observe  from  the  frequent  instances  of  two  or  more  per 

*  The  few  notes  which  are  interspersed  will  be  found  to  be  chiefly 
critical. 


PREFACE.  vii 


sons  joining  in  the  composition  of  the  same  play  (the  noble 
practice  of  those  times),  that  of  most  of  the  writers  con- 
tained in  these  selections  it  may  be  strictly  said,  that  they 
were  contemporaries.  The  whole  period,  from  the  middle 
of  Elizabeth's  reign  to  the  close  of  the  reign  of  Charles  I., 
comprises  a  space  of  little  more  than  half  a  century,  within 
which  time  nearly  all  that  we  have  of  excellence  in  serious 
dramatic  composition  was  produced,  if  we  except  the  Sam- 
son Agonistes  of  Milton. 


TABLE   OF   REFERENCE   TO   THE   EXTRACTS. 


THOMAS    SACKVILLE    AND    THOMAS    NORTON. 

t,  PAGE 

GORBODUC    1 

THOMAS    KYD. 

SPANISH   TRAGEDY 6- 

GEORGE  PEELE. 

DAVID    AND    BETHSABE 12 

CHRISTOPHER    MARLOWE. 

lust's  dominion 15 

first  part  of  tamburlaine 17 

edward   ii • 13 

the  rich  jew  of  malta t 27 

doctor  faustus 30 

ROBERT    TAILOR. 

THE    HOG    HATH    LOST    HIS    PEARL 39 

AUTHORS   UNCERTAIN. 

NERO • 46 

THE    MERRY    DEVIL    OF     EDMONTON •  •  •  •  47 

JOSEPH    COOKE. 

green's  tu  quoque 52 

THOMAS    DECKER. 

OLD    FORTUNATb'S 53 

SATIRO-MASTIX 60 

FIRST    PART    OF    THE    HONEST    WHORE 64 

SECOND    PART    OF    THE    HONEST    WHORE ib. 


TABLE  OF  REFERENCE  TO  THE  EXTRACTS. 


THOMAS    DECKER    AND    JOHN    WEBSTER. 

PAQK 

WESTWARD    HOE 66 

ANTHONY    BREWER. 

LINGUA 67 

JOHN    MARSTON". 

ANTONIO    AND    MELL1DA 68 

ANTONIO'S    REVENGE 70 

THE    MALCONTENT 75 

THE    WONDER    OF    WOMEN 76 

WHAT    YOU     WILL 77 

THE    INSATIATE    COUNTESS 79 

GEORGE    CHAPMAN. 

R1 

CiESAR    AND    POMPEY » 

bussy  d'ambois °3 

byron's   conspiracy °7 

byron's  tragedy yL 

THOMAS    HEYWOOD. 

'K  CHALLENGE  for  beauty  .  ■ 94 

THE    ROYAL    KING    AND    THE    LOYAL    SUBJECT 99 

A    WOMAN    KILL'D    WITH    KINDNESS lb. 

THE    ENGLISH    TRAVELLER 10G 

THOMAS    HEYWOOD    AND    RICHARD    BROOME. 

LATE    LANCASHIRE    WITCHES 113 

THOMAS    MIDDLETON    AND  RICHARD    ROWLEY. 

A    FAIR    QUARREL 117 

WILLIAM    ROWLEY. 

all's  lost  by  lust 130 

a   new  wonder 135 

THOMAS    MIDDLETON. 

''women  beware  women 143 

more  dissemblers  besides  women 1 -1-8 

no  wit.  help  like   a  wom  iks loi 

the  witch 1^3 


TABLE  OF  REFERENCE  TO  THE  EXTRACTS.  n 
WILLIAM    ROWLEY,    THOMAS    DECKER,    JOHN    FORD,  ETC. 

PAOB 

THE    WITCH    OF    EDMONTON" 164 

CYRIL    TOURNEUR. 

THE    atheist's    TRAGEDY 167 

THE    REVENGER'S    TRAGEDY 170 

JOHN    WEBSTER. 

the    devil's    law    case 1S4 

APPIT7S    AND    VIRGINIA 188 

DUCHESS    OF    MALFY       191 

THE    WHITE    DEVIL 205 


SPECIMENS 


OF 


ENGLISH  DRAMATIC    POETS 


GORBODl  C  A  TRAGEDY.  BY  THOMAS  SACKVILLE,  LORD 
BUCKHURST,  AFTERWARDS  EARL  OF  DORSET;  AND 
THOMAS  NORTON. 

Whilst  king  Gorboduc  in  the  presence  of  his  councillors  laments  the 
death  of  his  eldest  s  m,  Ferrex,  whom  Porrex,  the  younger  son,  has 
slain  ;  Marcella,  a  court  lady,  enters  and  relates  the  miserable  end  of 
Porrex,  stabbed  by  his  mother  in  his  bed. 

f-ioRBiniuc,  Arostus,  Eubulus,  and  others. 

Gorb.   What  cruel  destiny, 
What  froward  fate  hath  sorted  us  this  chance  ? 
That  even  in  those  where  we  should  comfort  find, 
Where  our  delight  now  in  our  aged  days 
Should  rest  and  be,  even  there  our  only  grief 
And  deepest  sorrows  to  abridge  our  life, 
Most  pining  lares  and  deadly  thoughts  do  grave. 

Arosl.  Yrur  grace  should  now,  in  these  grave  years  of  yours, 
Have  found  ere  this  the  price  of  mortal  joys, 
How  full  of  change, .how  brittle  our  estate, 
How  short  they  be,  how  lading  here  in  earth, 
Of  nothing  sure,  save  only  of  the  death, 
To  who. a  both  man  and  all  the  world  doth  owe 
Their  end  al  last  :   neither  should  nature's  power 
In  other  sort  against  your  heart  prevail, 
part  i.  2 


ENft]  isji    DRAMATIC   POETS. 


Than  as  the  naked  hand,  whose  stroke  assays 
The  armed  breast  where  force  doth  light  in  vain. 

Gorb.  Many  can  yield  right  grave  and  sage  advice 
Of  patient  sprite  to  others  wrapt  in  wo, 
And  can  in  speech  both  rule  and  conquer  kind,* 
Who,  if  by  proof  they  might  feel  natu  \  s  force, 
Would  show  themselves  men  as  they  are  indeed, 
Which  now  will  needs  be  gods  :  but  what  doth  mean 
The  sorry  cheer  of  her  that  here  doth  come  ? 

Marcella  enters. 

Marc.  Oh  where  is  ruth  ?  or  where  is  pity  now  ? 
Whither  is  gentle  heart  and  mercy  fled  ? 
Are  they  exil'd  out  of  our  stony  breasts, 
Never  to  make  return  ?  is  all  the  world 
Drowned  in  blood,  and  sunk  in  cruelty? 
if  not  in  women  mercy  may  be  found, 
If  not  (a)as)  within  the  mother's  breast 
To  her  own  child,  to  her  own  flesh  and  blood ; 
if  ruth  be  banisht  thence,  if  pity  there 
May  have  no  place,  if  there  no  gentle  heart 
Do  live  and  dwell,  where  should  we  seek  it  then  ? 
Gorb.   Madam  (alas)  what  means  your  wot'ul  tale  » 
Marc.  O  silly  woman  I,  why  to  this  hour 
Have  kind  and  fortune  thus  deferr'd  my  breath, 
That  I  should  live  to  see  this  doleful  day  ? 
Will  ever  wight  believe  that  such  hard  heart 
:  'nuld  rest  within  the  cruel  mother's  br past 
With  her  own  hand  to  slay  her  only  son  ? 
But  out  (alas)  these  eyes  beheld  the  same, 
They  saw  the  dreary  sight,  and  are  become 
Most  ruthful  records  of  the  bloody  fact. 
I'orrex,  alas,  is  by  his  mother  slain, 
And  with  her  hand,  a  woful  thine  to  tell. 
While  slumb'ring  on  his  careful  bed  he  rests. 
Tis  heart  stabb'd  in  with  knife  is  reft  of  life. 

*  Nature  ;  natural  affection. 


GORHODUC. 


Gorh.  O  Eubulus,  oh  draw  this  sword  of  ours, 
And  pierce  this  heart  with  speed.     O  hateful  light, 
O  loathsome  life,  O  sweet  and  welcome  death. 
Dear  Eubulus,  work  this  we  thee  beseech. 

Eub.  Patient  your  grace,  perhaps  he  liveth  yet, 
With  wound  receiv'd  but  not  of  certain  death. 

Gorh.  O  let  us  then  repair  unto  the  place, 
And  see  if  that  Porrex  live,  or  thus  be  slain.  [Exit. 

Marc.  Alas  he  liveth  not,  it  is  too  true, 
That  with  these  eyes,  of  him  a  peerless  prince, 
Son  to  a  king,  and  in  the  flower  of  youth, 
Even  with  a  twink*  a  senseless  stock  I  saw. 

Arost.  O  damned  deed  ! 

Marc.  But  hear  his  ruthful  end. 
The  noble  prince,  pierced  with  the  sudden  wounds, 
Out  of  his  wretched  slumber  hastily  start, f 
Whose  strength  now  failing,  streight  he  overthrew, 
When  in  the  fall  his  eyes  ev'n  now  unclosed, 
Beheld  the  queen,  and  cried  to  her  for  help  ; 
We  then,  alas,  the  ladies  which  that  time 
Did  there  attend,  seeing  that  heinous  deed 
And  hearing  him  oft  call  the  wretched  name 
Of  mother,  and  to  cry  to  her  for  aid, 
Whose  direful  hand  gave  him  the  mortal  wound, 
Pitying  alas  (for  nought  else  could  we  do) 
His  rueful  end,  ran  to  the  woful  bed, 
Despoiled  streight  his  breast,  and  all  we  might 
Wiped  in  vain  with  napkins  next  at  hand 
The  sudden  streams  of  blood,  that  flushed  fast 
Out  of  the  gaping  wound  :  O  what  a  look, 
O  what  a  ruthful  stedfast  eye  methought 
He  fixt  upon  my  face,  which  to  my  death 
Will  never  part  from  me, — wherewith  abraid^ 
A  deep-fetch'd  sigh  he  gave,  and  therewithal] 
Clasping  his  hands,  to  heaven  he  cast  his  sight ; 
And  streight,  pale  death  pressing  within  his  face, 

*  Twinkling  of  the  eye.  t  Started. 

\  Awaked;  raised  up. 


ENGLISH  DRAMATIC  POETS. 


The  flying  ghost  his  mortal  corps  forsook. 

Arost.  Never  did  age  bring  forth  so  vile  a  fact. 

Marc.   O  hard  and  cruel  hap  that  thus  assign M 
Unto  so  worthy  wight  so  wretched  end  : 
But  most  hard  cruel  heart  that  could  consent, 
To  lend  the  hateful  destinies  that  hand, 
By  which,  alas,  so  heinous  crime  was  wrought ; — 
O  queen  of  adamant,  O  marble  breast, 
If  not  the  favor  of  his  comely  face 
If  not  his  princely  chear  and  countenance, 
His  valiant  active  arms,  his  manly  breast, 
If  not  his  fair  and  seemly  personage  ; 
His  noble  limbs,  in  such  proportion  cast 
As  would  have  rapt  a  silly  woman's  thought ; 
If  this  might  not  have  mov'd  the  bloodv  heart, 
And  that  most  cruel  hand  the  wretched  weapon 
Even  to  let  fall,  and  kist  him  in  the  face, 
With  tears,  for  ruth  to  reave  such  one  by  death  ; 
Should  nature  yet  consent  to  slay  her  son  ? 
O  mother,  thou  to  murder  thus  thy  child  ! 
Even  Jove  with  justice  must  with  light'ning  flames 
From  heaven  send  down  some  strange  revenue  on  thee. 
Ah  noble  prince,  how  oft  have  I  beheld 
Thee  mounted  on  thy  fierce  and  trampling  steed, 
Shining  in  armor  bright  before  the  tilt, 
And  with  thy  mistress'  sleeve  tied  on  thy  helm, 
There  charge  thy  staff,  to  please  thy  lady's  eye, 
That  bow'd  the  head  piece  of  thy  friendly  foe  ! 
How  oft  in  arms  on  horse  to  bend  the  mace, 
How  oft  in  arms  on  foot  to  break  the  sword, 
Which  never  now  these  eyes  may  see  again. 

Arost.  Madam,  alas,  in  vain  these  plaints  are  shed. 
Rather  with  me  depart,  and  help  to  assuage 
The  thoughtful  griefs,  that  in  the  aged  king 
Must  needs  by  nature  grow,  by  death  of  this 
His  only  son,  whom  he  did  hold  so  dear. 

Marc.   What  wight  is  that  which  saw  that  I  did  see 
And  could  refrain  to  wail  with  plaint  and  tears? 


GORBODUC. 


Not  I,  alas,  that  heart  is  not  in  me ; 

But  let  us  go,  for  I  am  griev'd  anew, 

To  call  to  mind  the  wretched  lather's  wo.  [Exeunt. 

Chorus  of  aged  men.  When  greedy  lust  in  royal  seat  to  reign 
Hath  reft  all  care  of  gods  and  eke  of  men ; 
And  cruel  heart,  wrath,  treason,  and  disdain, 
Within  th'  ambitious  breast  are  lodged,  then 
Behold  how  mischief  wide  herself  displays, 
And  with  the  brother's  hand  the  brother  slays. 

When  blood  thus  shed  doth  stain  this  heaven's  face, 
Crying  to  Jove  for  vengeance  of  the  deed, 
The  mighty  God  even  moveth  from  his  place 
With  wrath  to  wreak  ;  then  sends  he  forth  with  speed 
The  dreadful  Furies,  daughters  of  the  night, 
With  serpents  girt,  carrying  the  whip  of  ire, 
With  hair  of  stinging  snakes,  and  shining  bright 
With  flames  and  blood,  and  with  a  brand  of  fire  : 
These,  for  revenge  of  wretched  murder  done, 
Doth  cause  the  mother  kill  her  only  son. 

Blood  asketh  blood,  and  death  must  death  requit ; 
Jove  by  his  just  and  everlasting  doom 
Justly  hath  ever  so  requited  it. 
This  times  before  record  and  times  to  come 
Shall  find  it  true,  and  so  doth  present  proof 
Present  before  our  eyes  for  our  behoof. 

O  happy  wight  that  suffers  not  the  snare 
Of  murderous  mind  to  tangle  him  in  blood  : 
And  happy  he  that  can  in  time  beware 
By  others'  harms,  and  turn  it  to  his  good  : 
But  wo  to  him  that  fearing  not  to  offend, 
Doth  serve  his  lust,  and  will  not  see  the  end. 

[The  style  of  this  old  play  is  stiff  and  cumbersome,  like  the  dresses  of  its 
times.  There  may  be  flesh  and  blood  underneath,  but  we  cannot  get  at  it. 
Sir  Philip  Sydney  has  prais  id  it  for  its  mor  ility.  One  of  its  authors  might 
easily  f  ■  ish  that.  Norton  was  an  associate  to  Hopkins,  Sternhold,  and 
Robert  Wisdom,  in  the  Singing  Psalms.  I  am  willing  to  believe  that  Lord 
Buckhurst  supplied  the  more  vital  parts.  The  chief  beauty  in  the  extract 
is  of  a  secret  nature.  Marcella  obscurely  intimates  that  the  murdered 
prince  Porrex  and  she  had  been  lovers.] 


ENGLISH  DRAMATIC  POETS. 


THE  SPANISH  TRAGEDY;  OR  IIIERONIMO  IS  MAD  AGAIN. 
A  TRAGEDY  BY  THOMAS  KYD. 

Horatio,  the  son  of  Hieronimo,  is  murdered  white  he  is  sitting  with  his 
mistress  Belimperia  by  night  in  an  arbor  in  his  father's  garden.  The 
murderers  (Balthazar,  his  rival,  and  Lorenzo,  the  brother  of  Belimpe- 
ria) hang  his  body  on  a  tree.  Hieronimo  is  awakened  by  the  cries  of 
Belimperia,  and  coming  out  into  hfe  garden,  discovers  by  the  light  of  a 
torch,  that  the  murdered  man  is  his  son.     Upon  this  he  goes  distracted. 

Hieronimo  mad. 

Hier.  My  son  !  and  what's  a  son  ? 
A  thing  begot  within  a  pair  of  minutes,  there  about : 
A  lump  bred  up  in  darkness,  and  doth  serve 
To  balance  those  light  creatures  we  call  women ; 
And  at  the  nine  months'  end  creeps  forth  to  light. 
What  is  there  yet  in  a  son, 
To  make  a  father  doat,  rave,  or  run  mad  ? 
Being  born,  it  pouts,  cries,  and  breeds  teeth. 
What  is  there  yet  in  a  son  ? 
He  must  be  fed,  be  taught  to  go,  and  speak. 
Ay,  or  yet  ?  why  might  not  a  man  love  a  calf  as  well  ? 
Or  melt  in  passion  o'er  a  frisking  kid,  as  for  a  son  ? 
Methinks  a  young  bacon, 
Or  a  fine  little  smooth  horse  colt, 
Should  move  a  man  as  much  as  doth  a  son  ; 
For  one  of  these,  in  very  little  time, 
Will  grow  to  some  good  use  •  whereas  a  son 
The  more  he  grows  in  stature  and  in  years, 
The  more  unsquar'd,  unlevell'd  he  appears  ; 
Reckons  his  parents  among  the  rank  of  fools, 
Strikes  cares  upon  their  heads  with  his  mad  riots, 
Makes  them  look  old  before  they  meet  with  age  ; 
This  is  a  son  ;  and  what  a  loss  is  this,  considered  truly ! 
Oh,  but  my  Horatio  grew  out  of  reach  of  those 
Insatiate  humors  :  he  lov'd  his  loving  parents  : 
He  was  my  comfort,  and  his  mother's  joy, 
The  very  arm  that  did  hold  up  our  house — 
Our  hopes  were  stored  up  in  him, 


THK  SPANISH  TRACEDY. 


None  but  a  damned  murderer  could  hate  him. 

He  had  not  seen  the  back  of  nineteen  years, 

When  his  strong  arm  unhors'd  the  proud  prince  Balthazar ; 

\nd  his  great  mind,  too  full  of  honor,  took 

\)  mercy  that  valiant  but  ignoble  Portuguese. 

Veil  heaven  is  heaven  still  ! 

aid  there  is  Nemesis,  and  furies, 

>.nd  things  call'd  whips, 

and  they  sometimes  do  meet  with  murderers : 
They  do  not  always  'scape,  that's  some  comfort, 
Ay,  ay,  ay,  and  then  time  steals  on,  and  steals,  and  steals, 
Till  violence  leaps  forth,  like  thunder 
W "rapt  in  a  ball  of  fire, 
And  so  doth  bring  confusion  to  them  all.  [Exit. 

Jaques  and  Pedro,  Servants. 

Jaq.   I  wonder,  Pedro,  why  our  master  thus 
At  midnight  sends  us  with  our  torches  light, 
When  man  and  bird  and  beast  are  all  at  rest, 
•Save  those  that  watch  for  rape  and  bloody  murder. 

Ped.  O  Jaques,  know  thou  that  our  master's  mind 
Is  much  distract  since  his  Horatio  died  : 
And,  now  his  aged  years  should  sleep  in  rest, 
His  heart  in  quiet,  like  a  desperate  man 
Grows  lunatic  and  childish  for  his  son  : 
Sometimes  as  he  doth  at  his  table  sit, 
He  speaks  as  if  Horatio  stood  by  him. 
Then  starting  in  a  rage,  falls  on  the  earth,- 
Cries  out  Horatio,  where  is  my  Horatio  ? 
So  that  with  extreme  grief,  and  cutting  sorrow, 
There  is  not  left  in  him  one  inch  of  man : 
See  here  he  comes. 

Hierondio  enters. 
Hier.  I  pry  thro'  every  crevice  of  each  wall, 
Look  at  each  tree,  and  search  thro'  every  brake, 
Beat  on  the  bushes,  stamp  our  grandame  earth, 
Dive  in  the  water,  and  stare  up  to  heaven  ; 
Yet  cannot  I  behold  mv  son  Horatio. 


ENGLISH  DKWIATIC  POETS. 


How  now,  who's  then  tits,  sprights  ? 

Perl.   We  are  your  servants  that  attend  you,  sir 

Hier.   What  make  you  with  your  torcht  s  in  the  dark  ? 

Perl.   You  bid  us  light  them,  and  atti  mi  you  here. 

Hier.  No,  no,  you  are  deceiv'd,  not  I,  you  are  deceiv'd : 
Was  I  so  mad  to  bid  you  light  your  torches  now  ? 
Light  me  your  torches  at  the  mid  of  noon, 
When  as  the  sun  god  rides  in  all  his  glory  ; 
Light  me  your  torches  then. 

Peel.  Then  we  burn  day  light. 

Hier.   Let  it  be  burnt ;   night  is  a  murd'rous  slut, 
That  would  not  have  her  treasons  to  be  seen  : 
And  yonder  pale  fae'd  Hecate  there,  the  moon, 
Doth  give  consent  to  that  is  done  in  darkness. 
And  all  those  stars  that  gaze  upon  her  face, 
Are  aglets*  on  her  sleeve,  pins  on  her  train  : 
And  those  that  should  be  powerful  and  divine, 
Do  sleep  in  darkness  when  they  most  should  shine. 

Perl.  Provoke  them  not,  fair  sir,  with  tempting  words, 
The  heavens  are  gracious  ;  and  your  miseries 
And  sorrow  make  you  speak  you  know  not  what. 

Hier.  Villain,  thou  lyest,  and  thou  doest  nought 
But  tell  me  I  am  mad  :  thou  lyest,  I  am  not  mad  : 
I  know  thee  to  be  Pedro,  and  he  Jaques. 
I'll  prove  it  to  thee  ;   and  were  I  mad,  how  could  I  ? 
W  here  was  she  the  same  night,  when  my  Horatio  was  murder'd  ? 
She  should  have  shone  :  search  thou  the  book  : 
Had  the  moon  shone  in  my  boy's  face,  there  was  a  kind  of  grace, 
That  I  know,  nay,  1  do  know  had  the  murd'rer  seen  him, 
His  weapon  would  have  fallen,  and  cut  the  earth, 
Had  he  been  fram'd  of  nought  but  blood  and  death ; 
Alack,  when  mischief  doth  it  knows  not  what, 
What  shall  we  say  to  mischief? 

Isabella,  his  wife,  enters. 

Isa.  Dear  Hieronimo,  come  in  a  doors, 
O  seek  not  means  to  increase  thy  sorrow. 

*  Tags  of  points. 


TUT:  SPANISH  TRAGEDY. 


Hier.  Indeed,  Isabella,  we  do  nothing  here; 
I  do  not  cry.  ask  Pedro  and  Jaques  : 
Not  I  indeed,  we  are  very  merry,  very  merry. 

Isa.  How  ?  be  merry  here,  be  merry  here  ? 
Is  not  this  the  place,  and  this  the  very  tree, 
Where  my  Horatio  died,  where  he  was  murder'd  1 

Hier.  Was,  do  not  say  what :  let  her  weep  it  out. 
This  was  the  tree,  I  set  it  of  a  kernel  ; 
And  when  our  hot  Spain  could  not  let  it  grow, 
But  that  the  infant  and  the  human  sap 
Began  to  wither,  duly  twice  a  morning 
Would  I  be  sprinkling  it  with  fountain  water  : 
At  last  it  grew  and  grew,  and  bore  and  bore : 
Till  at  length  it  grew  a  gallows,  and  did  bear  our  son. 
It  bore  thy  fruit  and  mine.     O  wicked,  wicked  plant. 
See  who  knocks  there.  [One  knocks  within  at  the  door. 

Pcd.  It  is  a  painter,  sir. 

Hier.  Bid  him  come  in,  and  paint  some  comfort, 
For  surely  there's  none  lives  but  painted  comfort. 
Let  him  come  in,  one  knows  not  what  may  chance. 
God's  will  that  I  should  set  this  tree  !  but  even  so 
Masters  ungrateful  servants  rear  from  nought, 
And  then  they  hate  them  that  did  bring  them  up. 

The  Painter  enters. 

Pain.   God  bless  you,  sir. 

Hier.  Wherefore  ?  why,  thou  scornful  villain  ? 
How,  where,  or  by  what  means  should  I  be  blest  ? 

Isa.  What  wouklst  thou  have,  good  fellow  ? 

Pain.  Justice,  madam. 

Hi<r.   0  ambitious  beggar,  wouldst  thou  have  that 
That  lives  not  in  the  world  1 
Why,  all  the  undelved  mines  cannot  buy 
An  ounce  of  justice,  'tis  a  jewel  so  inestimable. 
I  tell  thee,  God  hath  engross'd  all  justice  in  his  hands, 
And  there  is  none  but  what  comes  from  him. 

Pain.  O  then  I  see  that  God  must  right  me  for  my  murder'd 
son. 


10  ENGLISH  DRAMATIC  POETS 


Hier.  How,  was  thy  son  murder 'd  ? 

Pain.  Ay,  sir,  no  man  did  hold  a  son  so  dear. 

Hier.  What,  not  as  thine  ?  that's  a  lie, 
As  massy  as  the  earth  :  I  had  a  son, 
Whose  least  unvalued  hair  did  weigh 
A  thousand  of  thy  sons,  and  he  was  murder'd. 

Pain.  Alas,  sir,  I  had  no  more  but  he. 

Hier.  Nor  I,  nor  I ;  but  this  same  one  of  mine 
Was  worth  a  legion.     But  all  is  one. 
Pedro,  Jaques,  go  in  a  doors,  Isabella,  go, 
And  this  good  fellow  here,  and  1, 
Will  range  this  hideous  orchard  up  and  down, 
Like  two  she  lions,  'reaved  of  their  young. 

Go  in  a  doors  I  say.  [Exeunt. 

(The  Painter  and  he  sit  down.) 
Come  let's  talk  wisely  now. 
Was  thy  son  murdered  ? 

Pain.  Ay,  sir. 

Hier.  So  was  mine. 
How  dost  thou  take  it  ?  art  thou  not  sometime  mad  ? 
Is  there  no  tricks  that  come  before  thine  eyes  ? 

Pain.  O  lord,  yes,  sir. 

Hier.  Art  a  painter  ?  canst  paint  me  a  tear,  a  wound  ? 
A  groan  or  a  sigh  ?  canst  paint  me  such  a  tree  as  this  ? 

Pain.  Sir,  I  am  sure  you  have  heard  of  my  painting; 
My  name  's  Bazardo. 

Hier.  Bazardo !  'fore  God  an  excellent  fellow.  Look  you, 
sir. 
Do  you  see  1  I'd  have  you  paint  me  in  my  gallery,  in  your  oil 
colors  matted,  and  draw  me  five  years  younger  than  I  am  :  do 
you  see,  sir  ?  let  five  years  go,  let  them  go, — my  wife  Isabella 
standing  by  me,  with  a  speaking  look  to  my  son  Horatio,  which 
should  intend  to  this,  or  some  such  like  purpose  ;  God  Mess  thee, 
my  suret  son  ;  and  my  hand  leaning  upon  his  head  thus,  sir,  do 
you  see  ?  may  it  be  done  ? 

Pain.  Very  well,  sir. 

Hier.  Nay,  I  pray  mark  me,  sir. 


THE  SPANISH  TRAGEDY.  11 

Then,  sir,  would  I  have  you  paint  me  this  tree,  this  very  tree : 
Canst  paint  a  doleful  cry  ? 

Pain.   Seemingly,  sir. 

Hier.  Nay,  it  should  cry  ;  but  all  is  one. 
Well,   sir,   paint  me  a  youth  run  thro'  and  thro'  with  villains' 

swords  hanging  upon  this  tree. 
Canst  thou  draw  a  murd'rer? 

Pain.  I'll  warrant  you,  sir  ;  I  have  the  pattern  of  the  most 
notorious  villains  that  ever  lived  in  all  Spain. 

Hier.  O,  let  them  be  worse,  worse  :  stretch  thine  art, 
And  let  their  beards  be  of  Judas's  own  color, 
And  let  their  eye-brows  jut  over  :  in  any  case  observe  that ; 
Then,  sir.  after  some  violent  noise, 

Bring  me    forth  in  my  shirt  and  my  gown  under  my  arm,  with 
my  torch  in  my  hand,  and  my  sword  rear'd  up  thus, — 
And  with  these  words  ;    What  noise  is  this  ?  who  calls  Hieronimo  ? 
May  it  be  done  ? 

Pain.  Yea,  sir. 

Hier.  Well,  sir.  then  bring  me  forth,  bring  me  thro'  alley  and 
alley,  still  with  a  distracted  countenance  going  along,  and  let  my 
hair  heave  up  my  night-cap. 

Let  the  clouds  scowl,  make  the  moon  dark,  the  stars  extinct, 
the  winds  blowing,  the  bells  tolling,  the  owls  shrieking,  the  toads 
croaking,  the  minutes  jarring,  and  the  clock  striking  twelve. 

And  then  at  last,  sir,  starting,  behold  a  man  hanging,  and  tot- 
t'ring,  and  tott'ring,  as  you  know  the  wind  will  wave  a  man,  and 
I  with  a  trice  to  cut  him  down. 

And  looking  upon  him  by  the  advantage  of  my  torch,  find  it  to 
be  my  son  Horatio. 

There  you  may  show  a  passion,  there  you  may  show  a  passion. 

Draw  me  like  old  Priam  of  Troy,  crying,  the  house  is  a  fire, 
the  house  is  a  fire  ;  and  the  torch  over  my  head  ;  make  me  curse, 
make  me  rave,  make  me  cry,  make  me  mad,  make  me  well 
again,  make  me  curse  hell,  invocate,  and  in  the  end  leave  me  in 
a  trance,  and  so  forth. 

Pain.  And  is  this  the  end  ? 

Hier.  O  no,  there  is  no  end :  the  end  is  death  and  madness  ; 
And  I  am  never  better  than  when  I  am  mail  : 


12  ENGLISH  DRAMATIC  POETS. 

Then  methinks  T  am  a  brave  fellow  ; 

Then  I  do  w  ;   but  reason  abuseth  me  ; 

And  there's  the  torment,  there's  the  hell. 

And  last,  sir,  bring  me  to  one  of  the  murderers ; 

Were  he  as  strong  as  Hector, 

Thus  would  I  tear  and  drag  him  up  and  down. 

(He  beats  the  Painter  in.) 

[These  scenes,  which  are  the  very  salt  of  the  old  play  (which  without 
them  is  but  a  caput  mortuum,  such  another  piece  of  flatness  as  Locrine), 
Hawkins,  in  his  republication  of  this  tragedy,  has  thrust  out  of  the  text 
into  the  notes:  as  omitted  in  the  Second  Edition,  "  printed  for  Ed.  Allde, 
amended  of  such  gross  blunders  as  passed  in  the  first:"  and  thinks  them 
to  have  been  foisted  in  by  the  players. — A  late  discovery  at  Dulwich  Col- 
lege has  ascertained  that  two  sundry  payments  were  made  to  Ben  Jonson 
by  the  Theatre  for  furnishing  additions  to  Hieronimo.  See  last  edition  of 
Shakspeare  by  Reed.  There  is  nothing  in  the  undoubted  plays  of  Jonson 
which  would  authorize  us  to  suppose  that  he  could  have  supplied  the 
scenes  in  question.  I  should  suspect  the  agency  of  some  "  more  potent 
spirit."  Webster  might  have  furnished  them.  They  are  full  of  that  wild 
solemn  preternatural  cast  of  grief  which  bewilders  us  in  the  Duchess  of 
Malfy.] 


THE  LOVE  OF  KING  DAVID  AND  FAIR  BETHSABE,  WITH  THE 
TRAGEDY  OF  ABSALOM.     BY  GEORGE  PEELE. 

Bethsabe,  with  her  maid,  bathing.     She  sings:  and  David  sits  above, 

viewing  her. 

The  Song. 
Hot  sun,  cool  fire,  temper'd  with  sweet  air, 
Black  shade,  fair  nurse,  shadow  my  white  hair  : 
Shine  sun,  burn  fire,  breathe  air  and  ease  me. 
Black  shade,  fair  nurse,  shroud  me  and  please  me ; 
Shadow  (my  sweet  nurse)  keep  me  from  burning, 
Make  not  my  glad  cause,  cause  of  mourning. 
Let  not  my  beauty's  fire 
Enflame  unstaid  desire, 
Nor  pierce  any  bright  eye 
That  wandereth  lightly. 


DAVID  AND  BETHSABE.  13 

Bethsabe.  Come  gentle  Zephyr  trick'd  with  t1  os  •  perfume 
That  erst  in  Eden  sweetened  Adam's  love. 
And  stroke  my  bosom  with  the  silken  fan  : 
This  shade  (sun-proof)  is  yet  no  proof  for  thee, 
Thy  body  smoother  than  this  waveless  spring, 
And  purer  than  the  substance  of  the  same, 
Can  creep  through  that  his*  lances  cannot  pierce. 
Thou  and  thy  sister  soft  and  sacred  Air, 
Goddess  of  life,  and  governess  of  health, 
Keeps  every  fountain  fresh  and  arbor  sweet ; 
No  brazen  gate  her  passage  can  repulse, 
Nor  bushy  thicket  bar  thy  subtle  breath. 
Then  deck  thee  with  thy  loose  delightsome  robes, 
And  on  thy  wings  bring  delicate  perfumes, 
To  play  the  wantons  with  us  through  the  leaves. 

David.   What  tunes,  what  words,  what   looks,  what  wonders 
pierce 
My  soul,  incensed  with  a  sudden  fire  ! 
What  tree,  what  shade,  what  spring,  what  paradise, 
\  Enjoys  the  beauty  of  so  fair  a  dame  ! 
Fair  Eva,  plac'd  in  perfect  happiness, 
Lending  her  praise-notes  to  the  liberal  heavens, 
Struck  with  the  accents  of  Arch-angels'  tunes, 
Wrought  not  more  pleasure  to  her  husband's  thoughts, 
Than  this  fair  woman's  words  and  notes  to  mine. 
May  that  sweet  plain  that  bears  her  pleasant  weight, 
Be  still enamell'd  with  discolor'd  flowers; 
That  precious  fount  bear  sand  of  purest  gold  ; 
And  for  the  pebble,  let  the  silver  streams 
That  pierce  earth's  bowels  to  maintain  the  source, 
Play  upon  rubies,  sapphires,  chrysolites; 
The  brim  let  be  imbrae'd  with  golden  curls 
Of  moss  that  sleeps  with  sound  the  waters  make 
For  joy  to  feed  the  fount  with  their  recourse  ; 
Let  all  the  grass  that  beautifies  her  bower 
Bear  manna  every  morn  instead  of  dew  ; 
Or  let  the  dew  be  sweeter  far  than  that 

*  The  sun's  rays. 


Ji  ENGLISH  DRAMATIC  POETS.      . 

That  hangs  like  chains  of  pearl  on  Hermon  hill, 
Or  balm  which  trickled  from  old  Aaron's  beard. 

Enter  Cusay. 
See  Cusay,  see  the  flower  of  Israel, 
The  fairest  daughter  that  obeys  the  king 
Jn  all  the  land  the  Lord  subdued  to  me. 
Fairer  than  Isaac's  lover  at  the  well, 
Brighter  than  inside  bark  of  new-hewn  cedar, 
Sweeter  than  flames  of  fine  perfumed  myrrh  ; 
And  comelier  than  the  silver  clouds  that  dance 
On  Zephyr's  wings  before  the  king  of  Heaven. 

Cusay.  Is  it  not  Bethsabe  the  Hethite's  wife 
Urias,  now  at  Rabeth  siege  with  Joab  ? 

David.   Go  now  and  bring  her  quickly  to  the  King ; 
Tell  her,  her  graces  hath  found  grace  with  him. 

Cusay.   I  will,  my  Lord.  [Exit. 

David.  Bright  Bethsabe  shall  wash  in  David's  bower 
in  water  mix'd  with  purest  almond  flower. 
And  bathe  her  beauty  in  the  milk  of  kids  ; 
Bright  Bethsabe  gives  earth  to  my  desires, 
Verdure  to  earth,  and  to  that  verdure  flowers, 
To  flowers  sweet  odors,  and  to  odors  wings, 
That  carries  pleasures  to  the  hearts  of  Kings. 

Now  comes  my  Lover  tripping  like  the  Roe,  / 
And  brings  my  longings  tangled  in  her  hair. 
To  joy  her  love  I'll  build  a  kingly  bower, 
Seated  in  hearing  of  a  hundred  streams, 
That,  for  their  homage  to  her  sovereign  joys, 
Shall,  as  the  serpents  fold  into  their  nests, 
In  oblique  turnings  wind  the  nimble  waves 
About  the  circles  of  her  curious  walks, 
And  with  their  murmur  summon  easeful  sleep 
To  lay  his  golden  sceptre  on  her  brows. 

[There  is  more  of  the  same  stuff,  but  I  suppose  the  reader  has  a  surfeit ; 
especially  as  this  Canticle  of  David  has  never  been  suspected  to  contain  any 
pious  sense  couched  underneath  it,  whatever  his  son's  may.  The  Kingly 
bower  "seated  in  hearing  of  a  hundred  streams,"  is  the  best  of  it.] 


LUST'S  DOMINION.  15 


LUST'S  DOMINION  ;  OR,  THE  LASCIVIOUS  QUEEN.     A  TRAGE- 
DY, BY  CHRISTOPHER  MARLOWE 

The  Queen  Mother  of  Spain  loves  an  insolent  Moo?-.* 

Queen. — Eleazar,  the  Moor. 

Queen.  Chime  out  your  softest  strains  of  harmony, 
And  on  delicious  Music's  silken  wings 
Send  ravishing  delight  to  my  love's  ears  ; 
That  he  may  bo  enamor'd  of  your  tunes. 

Eleaz.  Away,  away. 

Queen.  No,  no,  says  aye  ;  and  twice  away,  says  stay. 
Come,  come,  I'll  have  a  kiss  ;   but  if  you'll  strive, 
For  one  denial  you  shall  forfeit  five. 

Eleaz.  Be  gone,  be  gone. 

Queen.  What  means  my  love  ? 
Burst  all  those  wires  ;  burn  all  those  instruments  ; 
For  they  displease  my  Moor.     Art  thou  now  pleas'd  ? 
Or  wert  thou  now  disturb'd  ?     I'll  wage  all  Spain 
To  one  sweet  kiss,  this  is  some  new  device 
To  make  me  fond  and  long.     Oh,  you  men 
Have  tricks  to  make  poor  women  die  for  you. 

Eleaz.  What,  die  for  me  ?     Away. 

Queen.  Away,  what  way  1     I  prithee,  speak  more  kindly. 
Why  dost  thou  frown  ?  at  whom  ? 

Eleaz.  At  thee. 

Queen.  At  me  ? 

0  why  at  me  ?  for  each  contracted  frown, 
A  crooked  wrinkle  interlines  my  brow  : 
Spend  but  one  hour  in  frowns,  and  I  shall  look 
Like  to  a  Beldam  of  one  hundred  years. 

1  prithee,  speak  to  me,  and  chide  me  not, 
I  prithee,  chide,  if  I  have  done  amiss  ; 
But  let  my  punishment  be  this,  and  this, 
I  prithee,  smile  on  me,  if  but  a  while  ; 
Then  frown  on  me,  I'll  die.     I  prithee,  smile. 

*  Such  another  as  Aaron  in  Titus  Andronicua. 


10  ENGLISH  DRAMATIC  POETS.      ' 

Smile  on  mo  ;  and  these  two  wanton  boys, 
These  prettj  lads  that  do  attend  on  me, 
Shall  call  thee  Jove,  shall  wait  upon  thy  cup 
And  till  line  nectar:   their  enticing  eyes 
Shall  serve  as  crystal,  wherein  thou  may'st  see 
To  dress  thyself;  if  thou  wilt  smile  on  me. 
Smile  on  me  ;  and  with  coronets  of  pearl 
And  bells  of  gold,  circling  their  pretty  arms, 
In  a  round  ivory  fount  these  two  shall  swim, 
And  dive  to  make  thee  sport  : 
Bestow  one  smile,  one  little  little  smile, 
And  in  a  net  of  twisted  silk  and  gold 
In  my  all-naked  arms  thyself  shalt  lie. 

[Kit  Marlowe,  as  old  Izaak  Walton  assures  us,  made  that  smooth  song 
which  begins  "  Come  live  with  me  and  be  my  love."     The  same  romantic 
invitations  "  in  folly  ripe  in  reason  rotten,"  are  given  by  the  queen  in  the 
play,  and  the  lover  in  the  ditty.     He  talks  of  "beds  of  roses,  buckles  of 
gold :" 

Thy  silver  dishes  for  thy  meat, 

As  precious  as  the  Gods  do  eat, 

Shall  on  an  ivory  table  be 

Prepared  each  day  for  thee  and  me. 

The  lines  in  the  extract  have  a  luscious  smoothness  in  them,  and  they  were 
the  most  temperate  which  I  could  pick  out  of  this  Play.  The  rest  is  in 
King  Cambyses'  vein;  rape,  and  murder,  and  superlatives;  "  huffing  brag- 
gart puft"  lines,*  such  as  the  play  writers  anterior  t"  Shakspeare  are  full 
of,  and  Pistol  "  but  coldly  imitates."     Blood  is  made  as  light  of  in  some  of 

*  Take  a  specimen  from  the  speech  of  the  Moor's : — 
Now  Tragedy,  thou  minion  of  the  niarht, 
Rhamnusia's  pue-fellow,  to  thee  I'll  sing 
I   pon  an  harp  made  of  dead  Danish  bones, 
The  proudest  instrument  the  world  affords; 
When  thou  i  Ility,  shall  bathe 

Thy  limbs  as  gs  of  blood 

Still  gushing  from  tin-  conduit  head  of  Spain. 
To  thee  that  never  blush'st,  though  thy  cheeks 
Are  full  of  blood,  O  Saint  Revenge,  to  thee 
I  consecrate  my  murders,  all  my  stabs, 
My  bloody  labors,  tortures,  stratagems, 
The  volume  of  all  wounds  that  wound  from  me  ; 
Mine  is  the  Stage,  thine  is  the  Tragedy 


TAMBURLAINE  THE  GREAT. 


these  old  dramas  as  money  in  a  modern  sentimental  comedy  ;  and  as  this  I.; 

given  away  till  it  reminds  us  that  it  is  nothing  but  counters,  so  t/ntl  is  spilt 
till  it  affects  us  no  more  than  its  representative,  the  paint  of  the  property- 
man  in  the  theatre.] 


TAMBURLAINE  THE  GREAT;  OR,  THE  SCYTHIAN  SHEPHERD. 
IN  TWO  PARTS.    BY  CHRISTOPHER  MARLOWE.— PART  FIRST. 

Tamburlaine's  person  described. 

Of  stature  tall,  and  straightly  fashioned  ; 

Like  his  desire,  lilt*  upwards  and  divine. 

So  large  of  limbs,  his  joints  so  strongly  knit, 

Such  breadth  of  shoulders,  as  might  mainly  bear 

Old  Atlas'  burthen.      'Twixt  his  manly  pitch 

A  pearl  more  worth  than  all  the  world  is  placed: 

Wherein  by  curious  soverainty  of  art 

Are  fixed  his  piercing  instruments  of  sight  : 

Whose  fiery  circles  bear  encompassed 

A  heaven  of  heavenly  bodies  in  their  spheres : 

That  guides  his  steps  and  actions  to  the  throne 

Where  Honor  sits  invested  royally. 

Pale  of  complexion,  wrought  in  him  with  passion 

Thirsting  with  soverainty  and  love  of  arms. 

His  loftv  brows  in  folds  do  figure  death; 

And  in  their  smoothness  amity  and  life. 

About  them  hangs  a  knot  of  amber  hair, 

Wrapped  in  curls,  as  fierce  Achilles'  was  ; 

On  which  the  breath  of  heaven  delights  to  play, 

Making  it  dance  with  wanton  majesty. 

His  arms  and  fingers  long  and  sinewy, 

ikening  valor  and  excess  of  strength  ; 
In  every  part  proportioned  like  tin'  man 
Should  make  the  world  subdue  to  Tamburlaine. 

His  custom  in   war. 
The  first  day  when  he  pitcheth  down  his  tents, 

*  Lifted. 
PART    T.  3 


ENGLISH    DB  \MATIC  POETS. 

White  is  their  hue  ;  and  on  his  silver  crest 

A  snowy  feather  spangled  white  he  bears  ; 

To  signify  the  mildness  of  his  mind, 

That,  satiate  with  spoil,  refuseth  blood  : 

But  when  Aurora  mounts  the  second  time, 

As  red  as  scarlet  is  his  furniture  ; 

Then  must  his  kindled  wrath  be  quenched  with  blood, 

Not  sparing  any  that  can  manage  arms : 

But  if  these  threats  move  not  submission, 

Black  are  his  colors,  black  pavilion, 

His  spear,  his  shield,  his  horse,  his  armor,  plumes, 

And  jetty  feathers,  menace  death  and  hell  ; 

Without  respect  of  sex,  degree  or  age, 

He  raseth  all  his  foes  with  fire  and  sword. 

[I  had  the  same  difficulty  (or  rather  much  more)  in  culling  a  few  sane 
lines  from  this  as  from  the  preceding  Play.  The  lunes  of  Tamburlaine  are 
perfect  "  midsummer  madness."  Nebuchadnazar's  are  mere  modest  pre- 
tensions compared  with  the  thundering  vaunts  of  this  Scythian  Shepherd. 
He  comes  in  (in  the  Second  Part)  drawn  by  conquered  kings,  and  reproaches 
these  pampered  jades  of  Asia  that  they  can  draw  but  twenty  miles  a  day. 
Till  I  saw  this  passage  with  my  own  eyes,  I  never  believed  that  it  was  any- 
thing more  than  a  pleasant  burlesque  of  Mine  Ancient's.  But  I  assure  my 
readers  that  it  is  soberly  set  down  in  a  Play  which  their  Ancestors  took  to 
be  serious.  I  have  subjoined  the  genuine  speech  for  their  amusement. 
Enter  Tamburlaine,  drawn  in  his  chariot  by  Trebizon  and  Soria,  with 
bits  in  their  mouths,  reins  in  his  left  hand,  in  his  right  hand  a  whip,  with 
which  he  scourgeth  them. 

Tamb.  Holla,  ye  pamper'd  jades  of  Asia: 

What  can  ye  draw  but  twenty  miles  a  day, 

And  have  so  proud  a  chariot  at  your  heels, 

And  such  a  coachman  as  great  Tamburlaine  ? 

But  from  Asphaltis,  where  I  conquered  you, 

To  Byron  here,  where  thus  I  honor  you  ? 

The  horse  that  guide  the  golden  eye  of  heaven, 

And  blow  the  morning  from  their  nostrils, 

Making  their  fiery  gate  above  the  glades, 

Are  not  so  honor'd  in  their  governor 

As  you  ye  slaves  in  mighty  Tamburlaine. 

The  headstrong  jades  of  Thrace  Alcides  tamed, 

That  King  Esreus  fed  with  human  flesh, 

And  made  so  wanton  that  they  knew  their  strengths, 

Were  not  subdued  with  valor  more  divine, 


EDWARD  THE  SECOND.  19 

Than  you  by  this  unconquer'd  arm  of  mine. 
To  make  you  tierce  and  lit  my  appetite, 
You  shall  be  fed  with  flesh  as  raw  as  blood, 
And  drink  in  pails  the  strongest  muscadel : 
If  you  can  live  with  it,  then  live  and  draw 
My  chariot  swifter  than  the  racking  clouds: 
If  not,  then  die  like  beasts,  and  fit  for  nought 
But  perches  for  the  black  and  fatal  ravens. 
Thus  am  I  right  the  scourge  of  highest  Jove,  &c.] 


EDWARD     THE     SECOND.      A     TRAGEDY,    BY    CHRISTOPHER 

MARLOWE. 

Gaveston  shows  what  pleasures    those   are  which  the  King  chiefly  ae- 

lights  in. 

Gav.  I  must  have  wanton  poets,  pleasant  wits, 
Musicians,  that  with  touching  of  a  string 
May  draw  the  pliant  King  which  way  I  please. 
Music  and  poetry  are  his  delight  ; 
Therefore  I'll  have  Italian  masks  by  night, 
Sweet  speeches,  comedies,  and  pleasing  shows  ; 
And  in  the  day,  when  he  shall  walk  abroad, 
Like  Sylvan  nymphs  my  pages  shall  be  clad  ; 
My  men,  like  satyrs  grazing  on  the  lawns, 
Shall  with  their  goat-feet  dance  the  antick  hay. 
Sometimes  a  lovely  boy  in  Dian's  shape, 
With  hair  that  gilds  the  water  as  it  glides, 
Crownets  of  pearl  about  his  naked  arms, 
And  in  his  sportful  hands  an  olive  tree 
To  hide  those  parts  which  men  delight  to  see, 
Shall  bathe  him  in  a  spring,  and  there  hard  by, 
One  like  Acteon,  peeping  thro'  the  grove, 
Shall  by  the  angry  goddess  be  transform'd, 
And  running  in  the  likeness  of  an  hart. 
By  velping  hounds  pull'd  down,  shall  seem  to  die  ; 
Such  things  as  these  best  please  his  majesty. 

The  younger  Mortimer  repines  at  the  insolence  of  Gaveston. 

Mort.  sen.  Nephew  I  must  to  Scotland,  thou  stay'st  here. 


2<)  ENGLISH  DRAMATIC  POETS. 


Leave  now  to  oppose  thyself  againsl  the  King. 
Thou  sits!  by  nature  he  is  mild  and  calm, 
And  seeing  his  mind  so  doats  on  Gaveston, 
Let  him  without  controlment  have  his  will. 
The  mightiest  kings  have  had  their  minions  : 
Great  Alexander  lov'd  Hephestion  ; 
The  conquering  Hercules  for  his  Hilas  wept, 
And  for  Patroclus  stern  Achilles  droop'd. 
And  not  kings  only,  but  the  wisest  men  ; 
The  Roman  Tully  lov'd  Octavius  ; 
Grave  Socrates  wild  Alcibiades. 
Then  let  his  grace,  whose  youth  is  flexible, 
And  promiseth  as  much  as  we  can  wish, 
Freely  enjoy  that  vain  light-headed  earl, 
For  riper  years  will  wean  him  from  such  toys. 

Mori.  jtin.  Uncle,  his  wanton  humor  grieves  not  me  j 
But  this  I  scorn,  that  one  so  basely  born, 
Should  by  his  sovereign's  favor  grow  so  pert, 
And  riot  with  the  treasure  of  the  realm. 
While  soldiers  mutiny  for  want  of  pay, 
He  wears  a  lord's  revenue  on  his  back, 
And  Midas-like,  he  jets  it  in  the  court, 
With  base  outlandish  cullions  at  his  heels, 
Whose  proud  fantastic  liveries  make  such  show, 
As  if  that  Proteus,  god  of  shapes,  appear'd. 
I  have  not  seen  a  dapper  jack  so  brisk  ; 
He  wears  a  short  Italian  hooded  cloak, 
Larded  with  pearl,  and  in  his  Tuscan  cap 
A  jewel  of  more  value  than  the  crown. 
While  others  walk  below,  the  king  and  he, 
From  out  a  window,  laugh  at  such  as  we 
And  flout  our  train,  and  jest  at  our  attire. 
Uncle,  'tis  this  that  makes  me  impatient. 


EDWARD  THE  SECOND.  21 

The   Barons   reproach   the   King  with   the  calamities  which   the  realm 
endures  from  the  ascendency  of  his  icicked  favorite  Gaveston. 

King    Edward,  Lancaster,  Warwick.      The    Mortimers   and 

other  Lords. 

Mort.jun.  Nay,  stay,  my  lord,  I  come  to  bring  you  new-. 
Mine  uncle  is  taken  prisoner  by  the  Scots. 

Edw.  Then  ransom  him. 

Lan.  'Twas  in  your  wars,  you  should  ransom  him. 

Mort.jun.   And  you  shall  ransom  him,  or  else 

Kent.   What,  Mortimer,  you  will  not  threaten  him  ? 

Edw.  Quiet  yourself,  you  shall  have  the  broad  seal, 
To  gather  for  him  throughout  the  realm. 

Lan.  Your  minion  (iaveston  hath  taught  you  this. 

Mort.jun.   .My  Lord,  the  family  of  the  Mortimers 
Are  not  .so  poor,  but  would  the)'  sell  their  land, 
Could  levy  men  enough  to  anger  vou. 
We  never  beg,  but  use  such  prayers  as  these. 

Edw.   Shall  I  still  be  haunted  thus  ? 

Mort.jun.  Nay,  now  you  are  here  alone,  I'll  speak  my  mind. 

Lan.   And  so  will  I,  and  then,  my  lord,  farewell. 

Mori.   The  idle  triumphs,  masks,  lascivious  shows, 
And  prodigal  gifts  bestow'd  on  Gaveston, 
Have  drawn  thy  treasure  dry,  and  made  thee  weak  ; 
The  murmuring  commons,  overstretched,  break. 

Lan.  Look  for  rebellion,  look  to  be  depos'd  ; 
Thy  garrisons  are  beaten  out  of  France, 
And  lame  and  poor  lie  groaning  at  the  gates. 
The  wild  Oneyle,  with  swarms  of  Irish  kerns, 
Live  uncontrol'd  within  the  English  pale. 
Unto  tl'.e  walls  of  York  the  Scots  make  road, 
And  unresisted  draw  away  rich  spoils. 

Mort.jun.   The  haughty  Dane  commands  the  narrow  seas, 
While  in  the  harbor  ride  thy  ships  unrigg'd. 

Lan.   What  foreign  prince  sends  thee  embassadors  ? 

Mort.   Who  loves  thee,  but  a  sort  of  flatterers  ? 

Lan.  Thy  gentle  queen,  sole  sister  to  Valoys, 
Complains  that  thou  hast  left  her  all  forlorn. 


22  ENGLISH    DR  \  \A  \  [TC   POET  !. 

Mori.   Thy  court  is  naked,  being  bereft  of  those, 
That  make  a  king  seem  glorious  to  the  world  : 
I  mean  the  peers,  whom  thou  shouldst  dearly  love. 
Libels  are  cast  against  thee  in  the  street : 
Ballads  and  rhimes  made  of  thy  overthrow. 

Lan.   The  Northern  brothers  seeing  their  houses  burnt, 
Their  wives  and  children  slain,  run  up  and  down 
Cursing  the  name  of  thee  and  Gaveston. 

Mori.  When  wert  thou  in  the  field  with  banner  spread  ? 
But  once  :  and  then  thy  soldiers  march'd  like  players, 
With  garish  robes,  not  armor  ;  and  thyself, 
Bedaub'd  with  gold,  rode  laughing  at  the  rest, 
Nodding  and  shaking  of  thy  spangled  crest, 
Where  women's  favors  hung  like  labels  down. 

Lan.  And  thereof  came  it,  that  the  fleering  Scots, 
To  England's  high  disgrace,  have  made  this  jig  : 
Maids  of  England,  sore  may  you  moorn, 
For  your  lemmons  you  have  lost  at  Bennock's  bom, 
With  a  heave  and  a  ho. 
What  weened  the  king  of  England, 
So  soon  to  have  woon  Scotland, 
With  a  rombellow  ? 

Mort.   Wigmore*  shall  fly  to  set  my  uncle  free. 

Lan.  And  when  'tis  gone,  our  swords  shall  purchase  more. 
If  ye  be  mov'd,  revenge  it  as  you  can  ; 
Look  next  to  see  us  with  our  ensigns  spread. 

[Exemit  Nobles. 

The  King  being  deposed,  surrenders  his  crown  into   the  hands  of  the 
Bishop  of  Winchester  and  the  Earl  of  Leicester  at  Kitlingworth  Castle. 

Lei.  Be  patient,  good  my  lord,  cease  to  lament, 
imagine  Killingworth  castle  were  your  court, 
And  that  you  lay  for  pleasure  here  a  space, 
Not  of  compulsion  or  necessity. 

Edw.   Leister,  if  gentle  words  might  comfort  me, 
Thy  speeches  long  ago  had  eas'd  my  sorrows  ; 
For  kind  and  loving  hast  thou  always  been. 

*  A  principal  manor  belonging  to  the  Mortimers. 


EDWARD  THE  SECOND.  23 


The  griefs  of  private  m  n  are  soon  allay'd, 
But  not  of  kings.     The  forest  deer  being  struck, 
Runs  to  an  herb  that  closeth  up  the  wounds  ; 
But  when  the  imperial  lion's  flesh  is  gor'd, 
He  rends  and  tears  it  with  his  wrathful  paw, 
And  highly  scorning  that  the  lowly  earth 
Should  drink  his  blood,  mounts  up  to  th'  air. 
And  so  it  fares  with  me,  whose  dauntless  mind 
Th'  ambitious  Mortimer  would  seek  to  curb, 
And  that  unnatural  queen,  false  Isabel, 
That  thus  hath  pent  and  mew'd  me  in  a  prison : 
For  such  outrageous  passions  claw  my  soul, 
As  with  the  wings  of  rancor  and  disdain 
Full  oft  am  I  soaring  up  to  high  heav'n, 
To  'plain  me  to  the  gods  against  them  both. 
But  when  I  call  to  mind  I  am  a  king, 
Methinks  I  should  revenge  me  of  the  wrongs. 
That  Mortimer  and  Isabel  have  done. 
But  what  are  kings,  when  regiment  is  gone, 
But  perfect  shadows  in  a  sunshine  day  ? 
My  nobles  rule.  I  bear  the  name  of  king  ; 
I  wear  the  crown,  but  am  control  I'd  by  them, 
By  Mortimer,  and  my  unconstant  queen, 
Who  spots  my  nuptial  bed  with  infamy  ; 
Whilst  I  am  lodg'd  within  this  cave  of  care, 
Where  sorrow  at  my  elbow  still  attends, 
To  company  my  heart  with  sad  laments, 
That  bleeds  within  me  for  this  strange  exchange. 
But  tell  me.  must  I  now  resign  my  crown  ? 
To  make  usurping  Mortimer  a  king  ? 

Bish.  Your  grace  mistakes,  it  is  for  England's  good, 
And  princely  Edward's  right,  we  crave  the  crown. 

Edw.  No,  'tis  for  Mortimer,  not  Edward's  head  ; 
For  he  's  a  lamb,  encompassed  by  wolves, 
Which  in  a  moment  will  abridge  his  life. 
But  if  proud  Mortimer  do  wear  this  crown, 
Heav'ns  turn  it  to  a  blaze  of  quenchless  fire, 
Or  like  the  snaky  wreath  of  Tisiphon, 


24  ENGLISH   DRAMATIC  POETS. 


Engirt  th"  temples  of  his  hateful  head  ; 

So  shall  not  England's  vines  be  perished, 

But  Edward's  name  survive,  though  Edward  dies. 

Lei.  My  lord,  why  waste  you  thus  the  time  away  ? 
They  stay  your  answer,  will  you  yield  your  crown  >. 

Edw.   Ah,  Leister,  weigh  how  hardly  I  can  hrook 
To  lose  my  crown  and  kingdom  without  cause  ; 
To  give  ambitious  Mortimer  my  right, 
That  like  a  mountain  overwhelms  my  bliss, 
In  which  extreme  my  mind  here  murther'd  is. 
But  what  the  heav'ns  appoint,  I  must  obey. 
Here,  take  my  crown  ;  the  life  of  Edward  too  ; 
Two  Kings  in  England  cannot  reign  at  once — 
But  stay  awhile,  let  me  be  king  till  night, 
That  I  may  gaze  upon  this  glittering  crown  ; 
So  shall  my  eyes  receive  their  last  content, 
My  head  the  latest  honor  due  to  it, 
And  jointly  both  yield  up  their  wished  right. 
Continue  ever,  thou  celestial  sun  ; 
Let  never  silent  night  possess  this  clime ; 
Stand  still,  you  watches  of  the  element ; 
All  times  and  seasons,  rest  you  at  a  stay, 
That  Edward  may  be  still  fair  England's  king. 
But  dav's  bright  beam  doth  vanish  fast  away, 
And  needs  I  must  resign  my  wished  crown  ; 
Inhuman  creatures !  nurs'd  with  tiger's  milk  • 
Why  gape  you  for  your  sovereign's  overthrow  ? 
My  diadem  I  mean,  and  guiltless  life. 
See,  monsters,  see,  I'll  wear  my  crown  again. 
What,  fear  you  not  the  fury  of  your  king  ? 
But,  hapless  Edward,  thou  art  fondly  led, 
They  pass  not  for  thy  frowns  as  late  they  did, 
But  seek  to  make  a  new-elected  king  ; 
Which  fills  my  mind  with  strange  despairing  thoughts, 
Which  thoughts  are  martyred  with  endless  torments, 
And  in  this  torment  comfort  find  I  none; 
But  that  I  feel  the  crown  upon  my  head  ; 
And  therefore  let  me  wear  it  yet  awhile. 


EDWARD  THE  SECOND.  25 


Messenger.   My  lord,  the  parliament  must  have  present  news, 
And  therefore  say,  will  you  resign  or  no  ? 

Edw.  I'll  not  resign  !  but  whilst  I  live  be  king. 
Traitors  be  gone,  and  join  with  Mortimer. 
Elect,  conspire,  install,  do  what  you  will  ; 
Their  blood  and  yours  shall  seal  these  treacheries  ! 

Bish.  This  answer  we  '11  return,  and  so  farewell. 

Lei.  Call  them  again,  my  lord,  and  speak  them  fair  ; 
For  if  they  go,  the  prince  shall  lose  his  right. 

Edw.  Call  thou  them  back,  I  have  no  power  to  speak. 

Lei.   My  lord,  the  king  is  willing  to  resign. 

Bish.  If  he  be  not,  let  him  choose. 

Edio.  O  would  I  might !  but  heav'n  and  earth  conspire 
To  make  me  miserable !  here,  receive  my  crown  ; 
Receive  it  ?  no,  these  innocent  hands  of  mine 
Shall  not  be  guilty  of  so  foul  a  crime. 
He  of  you  all  that  most  desires  my  blood, 
And  will  be  called  the  murtherer  of  a  king, 
Take  it.     What,  are  you  mov'd  ?  pity  you  me  ? 
Then  send  for  unrelenting  Mortimer, 
And  Isabel,  whose  eyes,  being  turn'd  to  steel, 
Will  sooner  sparkle  fire  than  shed  a  tear. 
Yet  stay,  for  rather  than  I  will  look  on  them, 
Here,  here  ;  now  sweet  God  of  heav'n, 
Make  me  despise  this  transitory  pomp, 
And  sit  for  ever  inthroniz'd  in  heav'n ! 
Come  death,  and  with  thy  fingers  close  my  eyes, 
Or,  if  I  live,  let  me  forget  mvself. 

Berkley   Castle.      The  King  is  left  alone  with  Lightborn,  a  murderer. 

Edw.  Who's  there  ?  what  light  is  that  ?  wherefore  com'st  thou  ? 

Light.  To  comfort  you,  and  bring  you  joyful  news. 

Edw.  Small  comfort  finds  poor  Edward  in  thy  looks. 
Villain,  I  know  thou  com'st  to  murder  me. 

Light.  To  murder  you,  my  most  gracious  lord  ! 
Far  is  it  from  my  heart  to  do  you  harm. 
The  queen  sent  me  to  sec  how  you  were  used, 
For  she  relents  at  this  your  misery  ; 
And  what  eyes  <  an  refrain  from  shedding  tears, 


28  ENGLISH  DRAMATIC  POETS.      - 

To  see  a  king  in  this  most  piteous  state. 

Ed7i\  Weep'st  thou  already  ?  list  a  while  to  me 
And  then  thy  heart,  were  it  as  Gurney's*  is, 
Or  as  Matrevis',*  hewn  from  the  Caucasus, 
Yet  will  it  melt,  ere  I  have  done  my  tale. 
This  dungeon  where  they  keep  me  is  a  sink 
Wherein  the  filth  of  all  the  castle  falls. 

Light.  O  villains ! 

Ediv.  And  there,  in  mire  and  puddle  haveH  stood 
This  ten  days'  space ;  and  lest  that  I  should  sleep, 
One  plays  continually  upon  a  drum. 
They  give  me  bread  and  water,  being  a  king  ; 
So  that,  for  want  of  sleep  and  sustenance, 
My  mind's  distemper'd,  and  my  body's  numb'd, 
And  whether  I  have  limbs  or  no,  I  know  not. 

0  would  my  blood  drop  out  from  every  vein, 
As  doth  this  water  from  my  tattered  robes. 
Tell  Isabel  the  queen,  I  look'd  not  thus, 
When  for  her  sake  I  ran  at  tilt  in  France, 
And  there  unhors'd  the  duke  of  Cleremont. 

Light.   O  speak  no  more,  my  lord  !  this  breaks  my  heart. 
Lie  on  this  bed,  and  rest  yourself  awhile. 

Edw.  These  looks  of  thine  can  harbor  nought  but  death ! 

1  see  my  tragedy  written  in  thy  brows. 
Vet  stay  awhile,  forbear  thy  bloody  hand, 
And  let  me  see  the  stroke  before  it  comes, 
That  even  then  when  I  shall  lose  my  life, 
My  mind  may  be  more  stedfast  on  my  God. 

Light.  What  means  your  highness  to  mistrust  me  thus  I 

Edio.  What  mean'st  thou  to  dissemble  with  me  thus  ? 

Light.  These  hands  were  never  stained  with  innocent  blood, 
Nor  shall  they  now  be  tainted  with  a  king's. 

Edw.  Forgive  my  thought,  for  having  such  a  thought. 
One  jewel  have  I  left,  receive  thou  this. 
Still  fear  I,  and  I  know  not  what's  the  cause, 
But  every  joint  shakes  as  I  give  it  thee. 
O  if  thou  harbor'st  murder  in  thy  heart, 

•  His  keepers. 


THE  RICH  JEW  OF  MALTA.  27 


Let  the  gift  change  thy  mind,  and  save  thy  soul. 
Know  that  I  am  a  king  ;  Oh,  at  that  name 
I  tcl  a  hell  of  grief.     Where  is  my  crown  ? 
Gone,  gone,  and  do  I  still  remain  alive  ? 

Light.  You're  overwatch'd,  my  lord,  lie  down  and  rest. 

Edw.  But  that  grief  keeps  me  waking,  I  should  sleep ; 
Fa-  not  these  ten  days  have  these  eyelids  closed. 
Now  as  I  speak  they  fall,  and  yet  with  fear 
Ojen  again.     O  wherefore  sitt'st  thou  here  ? 

Light.  If  you  mistrust  me,  I'll  be  gone,  my  lord. 

Edw.  No,  no,  for  if  thou  mean'st  to  murder  me, 
Tl.ou  wilt  return  again  ;  and  therefore  stay. 

Light.  He  sleeps. 

Edw.  O  let  me  not  die  ;  yet  stay,  O  stay  awhile. 

Light.  How  now,  my  lord  ? 

Edw.  Something  still  buzzeth  in  mine  ears, 
Ard  tells  me  if  I  sleep  I  never  wake  ; 
This  fear  is  that  which  makes  me  tremble  thus. 
Ard  therefore  tell  me,  wherefore  art  thou  come  ? 

Light.  To  rid  thee  of  thy  life  ;  Matrevis,  come. 

Edw.  I  am  too  weak  and  feeble  to  resist : 
Assist  me,  sweet  God,  and  receive  my  soul. 

[This  tragedy  is  in  a  very  different  style  from  "  mighty  Tainburlaine." 
Tne  reluctant  pangs  of  abdicating  Royalty  in  Edward  furnished  hints  which 
ShaJ<speare  scarce  improved  in  his  Richard  the  Second ;  and  the  death- 
scene  of  Marlowe's  king  moves  pity  and  terror  beyond  any  scene,  ancient  or 
modern,  with  which  I  am  acquainted.] 


THE  RICH    JEW  OF  MALTA.     A  TRAGEDY,  BY 
CHRISTOPHER  MARLOWE. 

Barabas,  the  Rich  Jew,  in  his   Counting-house,  with  heaps  of  gold  before 

him  ;  in  contemplation  of  his  weal  Hi. 


Bar.  So  that  of  thus  much  that  return  was  made 
And  of  the  third  part  of  the  Persian  ships 
There  was  u  venture  summ'd  and  satisfied. 


28  ENGLISH  DRAMATIC  POETS.     * 

As  to  those  Samnites,  and  the  Men  of  Uzz, 

That  bought  my  Spanish  oils  and  wines  of  Greece, 

Here  have  I  purst  their  paltry  silverbings. 

Fie,  what  a  trouble  'tis  to  count  this  trash ! 

Well  fare  the  Arabians,  who  so  richly  pay 

The  things  they  traffic  for  with  wedge  of  gold, 

Whereof  a  man  may  easily  in  a  day 

Tell  that,  which  may  maintain  him  all  his  life. 

The  needy  groom,  that  never  finger'd  groat, 

Would  make  a  miracle  of  thus  much  coin : 

But  he  whose  steel-barr'd  coffers  are  cramm'd  full, 

And  all  his  life-time  hath  been  tired, 

Wearying  his  fingers'  ends  with  telling  it, 

Would  in  his  age  be  loth  to  labor  so, 

And  for  a  pound  to  sweat  himself  to  death. 

Give  me  the  merchants  of  the  Indian  mines, 

That  trade  in  metal  of  the  purest  mould  ; 

The  wealthy  Moor,  that  in  the  eastern  rocks 

Without  control  can  pick  his  riches  up, 

And  in  his  house  heap  pearl  like  pebble-stones ; 

Receive  them  free  and  sell  them  by  the  weight, 

Bags  of  fiery  opals,  sapphires,  amethysts, 

Jacinths,  hard  topas,  grass-green  emeralds, 

Beauteous  rubies,  sparkling  diamonds, 

And  seld-seen  costly  stones  of  so  great  price 

As  one  of  them,  indifferently  rated, 

And  of  a  caract  of  this  quality, 

May  serve  in  peril  of  calamity 

To  ransome  great  kings  from  captivity. 

This  is  the  ware  wherein  consists  my  wealth  : 

And  thus  methinks  should  men  of  judgment  frame 

Their  means  of  traffic  from  the  vulgar  trade, 

And,  as  their  wealth  increaseth,  so  inclose 

Infinite  riches  in  a  little  room. 

But  now  how  stands  the  wind  ? 

Into  what  corner  peers  my  Halcyon's  bill  ? 

Ha  !  to  the  east  ?  yes  :  see.  how  stand  the  vances  ? 

East  and  by  south:   why  then,  I  hope  my  ships, 


THE  RICH  JEW  OF  MALTA.  29 


I  sent  for  Egypt  and  the  bordering  isles, 
Are  gotten  up  by  Nilus'  winding  banks. 
Mine  argosies  from  Alexandria, 
Loaden  with  spice  and  silks,  now  under  sail, 
Are  smoothly  gliding  down  by  Candy  shore 
T)  Malta,  through  our  Mediterranean  sea. 

Cot  ain  Merchants  enter,  and  inform  Barabas,  that  his  ships  from  vari- 
ous ports  are  safe  arrived,  and  riding  in  Malta  roads. — He  descants 
1:1  the  temporal  condition  of  the  Jews,  how  they  thrive  and  attain  to 
%reat  worldly  prosperity,  in  spite  of  the  curse  denounced  against  them. 

Tlius  trolls  our  fortune  in  by  land  and  sea, 

Aid  thus  are  we  on  every  side  enrich'd. 

These  are  the  blessings  promis'd  to  the  Jews, 

Ani  herein  was  old  Abram's  happiness. 

What  more  may  heaven  do  for  earthly  man, 

Thin  thus  to  pour  out  plenty  in  their  laps, 

R-ipoing  the  bowels  of  the  earth  for  them, 

Maling  the  sea  their  servants,  and  the  winds 

To  drive  their  substance  with  successful  blasts  ! 

Who  hateth  me  but  for  my  happiness  ? 

Or  vho  is  honor'd  now  but  for  his  wealth  ? 

Rather  had  I,  a  Jew,  be  hated  thus, 

Than  pitied  in  a  Christian  poverty  : 

For  I  can  see  no  fruits  in  all  their  faith, 

But  n  alice,  falsehood,  and  excessive  pride, 

Which  methinks  fits  not  their  profession. 

Haply  some  hapless  man  hath  conscience, 

And  for  his  conscience  lives  in  beggary. 

They  say  we  are  a  scattered  nation  : 

I  cannot  tell ;  but  we  have  scrambled  up 

More  wealth  by  far  than  those  that  brag  of  faith. 

There's  Kirriah  Jairim,  the  great  Jew  of  Greece, 

Obed  in  Bairseth,  Nones  in  Portugal, 

Myself  in  Malta,  some  in  Italy, 

Many  in  France,  and  wealthy  every  one ; 

Aye,  wealthier  far  than  any  Christian. 

I  must  confess,  we  come  not  to  be  kings ; 


30  ENGLISH  DRAMATIC  POETS.     . 

That's  not  our  fault ;  alas  !  our  number's  few  ; 

And  crowns  come  either  by  succession, 

Or  urged  by  force  ;  and  ndfhing  violent, 

Oft  have  I  heard  tell,  can  be  permanent. 

Give  us  a  peaceful  rule ;  make  Christians  kings, 

That  thirst  so  much  for  principality. 

[Marlowe's  Jew  does  not  approach  so  near  to  Shakspeare's  as  his  Edwa-d 
II.  does  to  Richard  II.  Shylock,  in  the  midst  of  his  savage  purpose,  is  a 
man.  His  motives,  feelings,  resentments,  have  something  human  in  then. 
"  If  you  wrong  us,  shall  we  not  revenge  ?"  Barabas  is  a  mere  monstff, 
brought  in  with  a  large  painted  nose,  to  please  the  rabble.  He  kills  in 
sport,  poisons  whole  nunneries,  invents  infernal  machines.  He  is  just  su:h 
an  exhibition  as  a  century  or  two  earlier  might  have  been  played  before  the 
Londoners  by  the  Royal  command,  when  a  general  pillage  and  massacre  of 
the  Hebrews  had  been  previously  resolved  on  in  the  cabinet.  It  is  curious 
to  see  a  superstition  wearing  out.  The  idea  of  a  Jew  (which  our  pbus 
ancestors  contemplated  with  such  horror)  has  nothing  in  it  now  revolting. 
We  have  tamed  the  claws  of  the  beast,  and  pared  its  nails,  and  now  we  tike 
it  to  our  arms,  fondle  it,  write  plays  to  flatter  it :  it  is  visited  by  prin.'es, 
affects  a  taste,  patronises  the  arts,  and  is  the  only  liberal  and  gentlenan- 
like  thing  in  Christendom.] 


THE  TRAGICAL  HISTORY  OF  THE  LIFE  AND  DEATH  OF 
DOCTOR  FAUSTUS.     BY  CHRISTOPHER  MARLOWE. 

How  Faustus  fell  to  the  study  of  magic. 
born  of  parents  base  of  stock 


In  Germany,  within  a  town  called  Rhodes : 

At  riper  years  to  Wirtemberg  he  went, 

Whereas  his  kinsmen  chiefly  brought  him  up. 

So  much  he  profits  in  Divinity, 

That  shortly  he  was  graced  with  Doctor's  name, 

Excelling  all,  and  sweetly  can  dispute 

In  the  heavenly  matters  of  theology  : 

Till  swoln  with  cunning  and  a  self-conceit, 

His  waxen  wings  did  mount  above  his  reach, 

And  melting,  heaven  conspired  his  overthrow  ; 

For  falling  to  a  devilish  exercise, 


DR.  FAUSTUS.  31 


And  glutted  now  with  Learning's  golden  gifts, 
lie  surfeits  on  the  cursed  necromancy. 
Nothing  so  sweet  as  magic  is  to  him, 
Which  he  prefers  before  his  chiefest  bliss. 

Faustus,  in  his  study,  ru/is  through  the  circle  of  the  sciences  ;  and  being 
satisfied  with  none  of  them,  determines  to  addict  himself  to  magic. 

Faust.  Settle  thy  studies,  Faustus,  and  begin 
To  sound  the  depth  of  that  thou  wilt  profess  : 
Having  commenc'd,  be  a  Divine  in  show, 
Yet  level  at  the  end  of  every  art, 
And  live  and  die  in  Aristotle's  works. 
Sweet  Analytics,  'tis  thou  hast  ravish'd  me. 
Bene  disserere  est  finis  Logices. 
Is,  to  dispute  well,  Logic's  chiefest  end  ? 
Affords  this  art  no  greater  miracle  ? 
Then  read  no  more  ;  thou  hast  attained  that  end. 
A  greater  subject  fitteth  Faustus'  wit. 
Bid  Economy  farewell  :  and  Galen  come. 
Be  a  physician,  Faustus,  heap  up  gold, 
And  be  eterniz'd  for  some  wond'rous  cure. 
Summum  bonum  medicince  sanitas  : 
The  end  of  physic  is  our  bodies'  health. 
Why.  Faustus  :  hast  thou  not  attain'd  that  end  ? 
Are  not  thy  bills  hung  up  as  monuments, 
Whereby  whole  cities  have  escap'd  the  plague, 
And  divers  desperate  maladies  been  cured  ? 
Yet  art  thou  still  but  Faustus,  and  a  man. 
Couldst  thou  make  men  but  live  eternally, 
Or  being  dead  raise  men  to  life  again, 
Then  this  profession  were  to  be  esteem'd. 
Physic,  farewell.     Where  is  Justinian  ? 
Si  miii  eademque  res  legatur  duobus, 
Alter  rem.  otter  valorem,  rei,  8fC. 
A  petty  case  of  paltry  legacies. 
Exhrrrdilari  filium  rum  potest  pater,  nisi,  8fC. 
Such  is  the  subject  of  the  Institute, 
And  universal  body  of  the  Law. 


32  ENGLISH  DRAMATIC  POETS.     • 

This  study  fits  a  mercenary  drudge, 

Who  aims  ut  nothing  hut  eternal  trash, 

Too  servile  and  illiberal  for  mc. 

W  hen  all  is  done,  Divinity  is  best. 

Jerome's  Bible,  Faustus  :  view  it  well. 

Stipendium  peccati  mors  est :  ha  !  Stipendium,  fyc. 

The  reward  of  sin  is  death :  that's  hard. 

Si  peccasse  negamus,  fallimur,  et  nulla  est  in  nobis  Veritas. 

If  we  say  that  we  have  no  sin,  we  deceive  ourselves,  and  there  is 

no  truth  in  us. 
Why  then  belike  we  must  sin,  and  so  consequently  die. 
Aye,  we  must  die  an  everlasting  death. 
What  doctrine  call  you  this  1     Che  sera  sera  : 
What  will  be  shall  be.     Divinity  adieu. 
These  Metaphysics  of  Magicians, 
And  necromantic  books,  are  heavenly. 
Lines,  Circles,  Letters,  Characters : 
Aye,  these  are  those  that  Faustus  most  desires. 

0  what  a  world  of  profit  and  delight, 
Of  power,  of  honor,  of  omnipotence, 
Is  promised  to  the  studious  artizan  ! 

All  things  that  move  between  the  quiet  poles 
Shall  be  at  my  command.     Emperors  and  Kings 
Are  but  obey'd  in  their  several  provinces ; 
But  his  dominion  that  exceeds  in  this, 
Stretcheth  as  far  as  doth  the  mind  of  man  : 
A  sound  Magician  is  a  Demigod. 
Here  tire  my  brains  to  gain  a  deity. 

******** 

How  am  I  glutted  with  conceit  of  this  ! 

Shall  I  make  Spirits  fetch  me  what  I  please  ? 

Resolve  me  of  all  ambiguities  ? 

Perform  what  desperate  enterprises  I  will  ? 

I'll  have  them  fly  to  India  for  gold, 

Ransack  the  ocean  for  orient  pearl, 

And  search  all  corners  of  the  new-found  world 

For  pleasant  fruits  and  princely  delicates. 

1  '11  have  them  read  me  strange  philosophy  ; 


DK.  FAUSTUS.  33 


And  tell  the  secrets  of  all  foreign  kings  : 
I'll  have  them  wall  all  Germany  with  brass, 
And  with  swift  Rhiie  circle  all  Wirtembere : 
I  '11  have  them  fill  the  public  schools  with  skill, 
Wherewith  the  students  shall  be  bravely  clad : 
I  '11  levy  soldiers  with  the  coin  they  bring, 
And  chase  the  Prince  ^f  Parma  from  our  land ; 
And  reign  sole  king  of  all  the  provinces ; 
Yea,  stranger  engines  for  the  brunt  of  war, 
Than  was  the  fiery  keel  at  Antwerp  bridge, 
I  '11  make  my  servile  Spirits  to  invent, 
Come,  German  V  aides,  and  Cornelius, 
And  make  me  wise  with  your  sage  conference. 

Enter  Valdes  and  Cornelius. 

Faust.  Valdes,  sweet  Valdes,  and  Cornelius, 
Know  that  your  words  have  won  me  at  the  last 
To  practise  magic  and  concealed  Arts. 
Philosophy  is  odious  and  obscure  : 
Both  Law  and  Physic  are  For  petty  wits : 
'Tis  Magic,  Magic,  that  hath  ravish'd  me. 
Then  gentle  friends  aid  Tie  in  this  attempt : 
And  I  that  have  with  sultil  syllogisms 
Gravell'd  the  Pastors  of  tie  German  Church, 
And  made  the  flowering  pride  of  Wirtemberg 
Swarm  to  my  problems,  as  th'  infernal  Spirits 
On  sweet  Musseus  when  he  came  to  hell, 
Will  be  as  cunning  as  Agrippa  was, 
Whose  shadow  made  all  Europe  honor  him. 

T 'aid.  Faustus,  these  books,  thy  wit,  and  our  experience, 
Shall  make  all  nations  canonize  us. 
As  Indian  Moors  obey  their  Spanish  Lords, 
So  shall  the  Spirits  of  every  Element 
Be  always  serviceable  to  us  three  : 
Like  Lions  shall  they  guard  us  when  we  please ; 
Like  Almain  flutters  with  their  horsemen's  staves, 
Or  Lapland  Giants  trotting  by  our  sides : 
Sometimes  like  Women,  or  unwedded  Maids, 
part  1.  4 


34  ENGLISH  DRAMATIC  POE?S. 


Shadowing  more  beauty  in  their  airy  brows 

Than  have  the  white  breasts  of  the  Queen  of  Love. 

Com.  The  miracles  that  magic  will  perform, 
Will  make  thee  vow  to  study  nothing  else. 
He  that  is  grounded  in  astrology, 
Enricht  with  tongues,  well  seen  in  minerals, 
Hath  all  the  principles  magic  doth  require. 

Faust.  Come,  show  me  some  demonstrations  magical, 
That  I  may  conjure  in  some  bushy  grove, 
And  have  these  joys  in  full  possession. 

Vald.  Then  haste  thee  to  some  solitary  grove, 
And  bear  wise  Bacon's  and  Albanus'  works, 
The  Hebrew  Psalter  and  New  Testament ; 
And  whatsoever  else  is  requisite 
We  will  inform  thee,  ere  our  conference  cease. 

Fanstus  being  instructed  in  the  elements  of  magic  by  his  friends  Vald.es 
and  Cornelius,  sells  his  soul  to  the  devil,  to  have  an  Evil  Spirit  at  his 
command  for  twenty-four  years. —  When  the  years  are  expired,  the 
devils  claim  his  soul. 

Fatjstus — the  night  of  his  death.    Wagner,  his  Servant. 

Faust.  Say,  Wagner,  thou  hast  perused  my  Will, 
How  dost  thou  like  it  ? 

Wag.  Sir,  so  wondrous  well, 
As  in  all  humble  duty  I  do  yield 
My  life  and  lasting  service  for  your  love.  [Exit. 

Three  Scholars  enter. 

Faust.  Gramercy,  Wagner, 
Welcome,  Gentlemen. 

First  Sch.  Now,  worthy  Faustus,  methinks  your  looks  are 
chang'd. 

Faust.  Oh,  Gentlemen. 

Sec.  Sch.  What  ails  Faustus  ? 

Faust.  Ah,  my  sweet  chamber-fellow,  had  I  lived  with  thee, 
then  had  I  lived  still,  but  now  must  die  eternally.  Look,  Sirs, 
comes  he  not  ?  comes  he  not  ? 

First  Sch.  Oh,  my  dear  Faustus,  what  imports  this  fear  ? 


DR.  FAUSTUS.  35 

Sec.  Sch.  Is  all  our  pleasure  turned  to  melancholy  ? 

Third  Sch.  He  is  not  well  with  being  over  solitary. 

Sec.  Sch.  If  it  be  so,  we  will  have  physicians,  and   Faustus 

shall  be  cured. 
Third  Sch.  'Tis  but  a  surfeit,  Sir;  fear  nothing. 
Famt.  A  surfeit  of  a  deadly  sin  that  hath  damn'd  both  body 

and  soul. 
Sec.  Sch.    Yet,  Faustus,  look   up   to   heaven,  and  remember 
mercy  is  infinite. 

Faust.  But  Faustus'  offence  can  ne'er  be  pardoned.  The 
serpent   that   tempted    Eve    may    be    saved,    but   not    Faustus. 

0  Gentlemen,  hear  me  with  patience,  and  tremble  not  at  my 
speeches.     Though  my  heart  pant  and  quiver  to  remember  that 

1  have  been  a  student  here  these  thirty  years.  O  would  I  had 
ne'er  seen  Wirtemberg,  never  read  book  !  and  what  wonders  have 
I  done,  all  Germany  can  witness,  yea,  all  the  world :  for  which, 
Faustus  hath  lost  both  Germany  and  the  world  :  yea,  heaven 
itself,  heaven  the  seat  of  God,  the  throne  of  the  blessed,  the  king, 
dom  of  joy  and  must  remain  in  hell  for  ever.  Hell,  O  hell,  for 
ever.  Sweet  friends,  what  shall  become  of  Faustus  being  in  hell 
for  ever  ? 

Sec.  Sch.  Yet  Faustus  call  on  God. 

Famt.  On  God  whom  Faustus  hath  abjured?  on  God  whom 
Faustus  hath  blasphemed  ?  O  my  God,  I  would  weep  but  the 
devil  draws  in  my  tears.  Gush  forth  blood  instead  of  tears,  yea, 
life  and  soul.  Oh,  he  stays  my  tongue  :  I  would  lift  up  my 
hands,  but  see,  they  hold  'em,  they  hold  'em. 

Scholars.  Who,  Faustus  ? 

Faust.  Why,  Lucifer  and  Mephostophilis.  O  gentlemen,  I 
gave  them  my  soul  for  cunning. 

Scholars.   O  God  forbid. 

Faust.  God  forbid  it  indeed,  but  Faustus  hath  done  it :  for  the 
vain  pleasure  of  four-and-twenty  years  hath  Faustus  lost  eternal 
joy  and  felicity.  I  writ  them  a  bill  with  mine  own  blood,  the 
date  is  expired  :  this  is  the  time,  and  he  will  fetch  me. 

First  Sch.  Why  did  not  Faustus  tell  us  of  this  before,  that 
Divines  might  have  prayed  for  thee  ? 

Faust.  Oft  have  I  thought   to  have  done   so  ;    but  the   devil 


30  ENGLISH  DRAMATIC  POETS.      ■ 

threatened  to  tear  me  in  pieces  if  I  named  God ;  to  fetch  me  body 
and  soul  if  I  once  gave  ear  to  divinity  ;  and  now  it  is  too  late. 
Gentlemen,  away,  lest  you  perish  with  me. 

Sec.  Sch.  O  what  may  we  do  to  save  Faustus  ? 

Faust.  Talk  not  of  me,  but  save  yourselves  and  depart. 

Third  Sch.  God  will  strengthen  me,  I  will  stay  with  Faustus. 

First  Sch.  Tempt  not  God,  sweet  friend,  but  let  us  into  the 
next  room  and  pray  for  him. 

Faust.  Aye,  pray  for  me,  pray  for  me  ;  and  what  noise  soever 
you  hear,  come  not  unto  me,  for  nothing  can  rescue  me. 

Sec.  Sch.  Pray  thou,  and  we  will  pray,  that  God  may  have 
mercy  upon  thee. 

Faust.  Gentlemen,  farewell  ;  if  I  live  till  morning,  I'll  visit 
you  :  if  not,  Faustus  is  gone  to  hell. 

Scholars.  Faustus,  farewell. 

Faustus  alone. — The  clock  strikes  eleven. 

Faust.  O  Faustus, 
Now  hast  thou  but  one  bare  hour  to  live, 
And  then  thou  must  be  damn'd  perpetually. 
Stand  still  you  ever-moving  spheres  of  heaven, 
That  time  may  cease,  and  midnight  never  come. 
Fair  Nature's  eye,  rise,  rise  again,  and  make 
Perpetual  day  :  or  let  this  hour  be  but 
A  year,  a  month,  a  week,  a  natural  day 
That  Faustus  may  repent  and  save  his  soul. 
O  lenle  lehle  currite  noctis  equi. 
The  stars  move  still,  time  runs,  the  clock  will  strike, 
The  devil  will  come,  and  Faustus  must  be  damn'd. 
O  I  will  leap  to  heaven,  who  pulls  me  down  ? 
See  where  Christ's  blood  streams  in  the  firmament : 
One  drop  of  blood  will  save  me ;  Oh,  my  Christ, 
Rend  not  my  heart  for  naming  of  my  Christ. 
Yet  will  I  call  on  him  :  O  spare  me,  Lucifer. 
Where  is  it  now  ?  'tis  gone  ? 
And  see,  a  threat'ning  arm,  and  angry  brow. 
Mountains  and  hills  come,  come,  and  fall  on  me, 
And  hide  me  from  the  heavy  wrath  of  heaven. 


DR.   FAUSTUS.  37 


No  ?  then  I  will  headlong  run  into  the  earth  : 
Gape  earth.     O  no,  it  will  not  harbor  me. 
You  stars  that  reigned  at  my  nativity. 
Whose  influence  have  allotted  death  and  hell, 
Now  draw  up  Faustus  like  a  foggy  mist 
Into  the  entrails  of  yon  laboring  cloud  ; 
That  when  you  vomit  forth  into  the  air, 
My  limbs  may  issue  from  your  smoaky  mouths, 
But  let  my  soul  mount,  and  ascend  to  heaven. 

The  watch  strikes. 

O  half  the  hour  is  past :  'twill  all  be  past  anon. 

O  if  my  soul  must  suffer  for  my  sin, 

Impose  some  end  to  my  incessant  pain. 

Let  Faustus  live  in  hell  a  thousand  years, 

A  hundred  thousand,  and  at  the  last  be  saved : 

No  end  is  limited  to  damned  souls. 

Why  wert  thou  not  a  creature  wanting  soul  ? 

Or  why  is  this  immortal  that  thou  hast  ? 

Oh,  Pythagoras,  Metempsychosis,  were  that  true, 

This  soul  should  fly  from  me,  and  I  be  chang'd 

Into  some  brutish  beast. 

All  beasts  are  happy,  for  when  they  die, 

Their  souls  are  soon  dissolv'd  in  elements  ; 

But  mine  must  live  still  to  be  plagued  in  hell. 

Curst  be  the  parents  that  engender'd  me : 

No,  Faustus,  curse  thyself,  curse  Lucifer, 

That  hath  deprived  thee  of  the  joys  of  heaven. 

The  clock  strikes  twelve. 

It  strikes,  it  strikes ;  now,  body,  turn  to  air, 
Or  Lucifer  will  bear  thee  quick  to  hell. 
O  soul,  be  chang'd  into  small  water  drops, 
And  fall  into  the  ocean ;  ne'er  be  found. 

Thunder,  and  enter  the  Devils. 

O  mercy  heaven,  look  not  so  fierce  on  me. 
Adders  and  serpents,  let  me  breathe  awhile : 
Ugly  hell  gape  not :  come  not  Lucifer : 


38  ENGLISH  DRAMATIC  POETS. 

I  '11  burn  my  books  :  Oh  Mcphostophilis  ! 
*         *  *  *  *  * 

Enter  Scholars. 

First  Sch.  Come  gentlemen,  let  us  go  visit  Faustus, 
For  such  a  dreadful  night  was  never  seen 
Since  first  the  world's  creation  did  begin  ; 
Such  fearful  shrieks  and  cries  were  never  heard. 
Pray  heaven  the  Doctor  have  escaped  the  danger. 

Sec.  Sch.  O  help  us  heavens !  see  here  are  Faustus'  limbs 
All  torn  asunder  by  the  hand  of  death. 

Third  Sch.  The  devil  whom  Faustus  serv'd  hath  torn  him  thus  : 
For  'twixt  the  hours  of  twelve  and  one,  methought 
I  heard  him  shriek,  and  call  aloud  for  help ; 
At  which  same  time  the  house  seem'd  all  on  fire 
With  dreadful  horror  of  these  damned  fiends. 

Sec.  Sch.   Well,  gentlemen,  though  Faustus'  end  be  such 
As  every  Christian  heart  laments  to  think  on  : 
Yet,  for  he  was  a  scholar  once  admired 
For  wondrous  knowledge  in  our  German  schools, 
We'll  give  his  mangled  limbs  due  burial  : 
And  all  the  scholars,  cloth'd  in  mourning  black, 
Shall  wait  upon  his  heavy  funeral. 

Chorus.  Cut  is  the  branch  that  might  have  grown  full  strait, 
And  burned  is  Apollo's  laurel  bough 
That  sometime  grew  within  this  learned  man  : 
Faustus  is  gone  !  Regard  his  hellish  fall, 
Whose  fiendful  fortune  may  exhort  the  wise 
Only  to  wonder  at  unlawful  things  : 
Whose  deepness  doth  entice  such  forward  wits 
To  practise  more  than  heavenly  power  permits. 

[The  growing  horrors  of  Faustus  are  awfully  marked  by  the  hours  and 
half  hours  as  they  expire  and  bring  him  nearer  and  nearer  to  the  exactment 
of  his  dire  compact.     It  is  indeed  an  agony  and  bloody  sweat. 

Marlowe  is  said  to  have  been  tainted  with  atheistical  positions,  to  have  de- 
nied God  and  the  Trinity.  To  such  a  genius  the  history  of  Faustus  must  have 
been  delectable  food  :  to  wander  in  fields  where  curiosity  is  forbidden  to  go, 
to  approach  the  dark  gulf  near  enough  to  look  in,  to  be  busied  in  specula- 
tions which  are  the  rottenest  part  of  the  core  of  the  fruit  that  'fell  from  the 


THE  HOG  HATH  LOST  HIS  PEARL.  3D 

tree  of  knowledge.  Barabas  the  Jew,  and  Faustus  the  conjuror,  are  off- 
springs of  a  mind  which  at  least  delighted  to  dally  with  interdicted  .subjects. 
They  both  talk  a  language  which  a  believer  would  have  been  tender  of  put- 
ting into  the  mouth  of  a  character  though  but  in  fiction.  But  the  holiest 
minds  have  sometimes  not  thought  it  blameable  to  counterfeit  impiety  in 
the  person  of  another,  to  bring  Vice  in  upon  the  stage  speaking  her  own 
dialect,  and,  themselves  being  armed  with  an  Unction  of  self-confident 
impunity,  have  not  scrupled  to  handle  and  touch  that  familiarly  which 
would  be  death  to  others.  Milton,  in  the  person  of  Satan,  has  started 
speculations  hardier  than  any  which  the  feeble  armory  of  the  atheist  ever 
furnished:  and  the  precise,  strait-laced  Richardson  has  strengthened  Vice, 
from  the  mouth  of  Lovelace,  with  entangling  sophistries  and  abstruse  pleas 
against  her  adversary  Virtue,  which  Sedley,  Villiers,  and  Rochester  wanted 
depth  of  libertinism  sufficient  to  have  invented."] 


THE   HOG  HATH   LOST  HIS  PEARL;   A  COMEDY,  BY  ROBERT 

TAILOR. 

Carracus  appoints  his  friend  Albert  to  meet  him  before  the  break  of  day 
at  the  house  of  the  old  Lord  Wealthy,  whose  daughter  Maria  has  con- 
sented to  a  stolen  match  with  Carracus. — Albert,  arriving  before  his 
friend,  is  mistaken  by  Maria  for  Carracus,  and  takes  advantage  of 
the  night  to  wrong  his  friend. 

Enter  Albert,  solus. 
Alb.  This  is  the  green,  and  this  the  chamber-window  ; 
And  see,  the  appointed  light  stands  in  the  casement, 
The  ladder  of  ropes  set  orderly, 
Yet  he  that  should  ascend,  slow  in  his  haste, 
Is  not  as  yet  come  hither. 
Were  it  any  friend  that  lives  but  Carracus, 
I'd  try  the  bliss  which  this  fine  time  presents. 
Appoint  to  carry  hence  so  rare  an  heir, 
And  be  so  slack  !  'sfoot  it  doth  move  my  patience. 
Would  any  man  that  is  not  void  of  sense 
Not  have  watch'd  night  by  night  for  such  a  prize  1 
Her  beauty's  so  attractive,  that  by  Heaven 
My  heart  half  grants  to  do  my  friend  a  wrong. 
Forego  these  thoughts,  Albert,  be  not  a  slave 
To  thy  affection  ;  do  not  falsify 


40  I'.XCLISII  DRAMATIC  POETS. 

Thy  faith  to  him  whose  only  friendship's  worth 
A  world  of  women.     He  is  such  a  one, 
Thou  canst  not  live  without  his  good, 
He  is  and  was  ever  as  thine  own  heart's  blood. 

[Afaria  beckons  him  from  the  window. 
'Sfoot,  see,  she  beckons  me  for  Carracus. 
Shall  my  base  purity  cause  me  neglect 
This  present  happiness !  I  will  obtain  it, 
Spite  of  my  timorous  conscience.     I  am  in  person, 
Habit  and  all,  so  like  to  Carracus, 
It  may  be  acted  and  ne'er  call'd  in  question. 

Mar.   (calls)  Hist !  Carracus,  ascend  : 
All  is  as  clear  as  in  our  hearts  we  wish'd. 

[Jllbert  ascends,  and  being  on  the  top  of  the  ladder  puts 
out  the  candle. 

Mar.  O  love,  why  do  you  so  ? 

Alb.  I  heard  the  steps  of  some  coming  this  w'ay. 
Did  you  not  hear  Albert  pass  by  as  yet  ? 

Mar.  Not  any  creature  pass  this  way  this  hour. 

Alb.  Then  he  intends  just  at  the  break  of  day 
To  lend  his  trusty  help  to  our  departure. 

Mar.  Come  then,  dear  Carracus,  thou  now  shalt  rest 
Upon  that  bed  where  fancy  oft  hath  thought  thee  ; 
Which  kindness  until  now  I  ne'er  did  grant  thee, 
Nor  would  I  now  but  that  thy  loyal  faith 
I  have  so  often  tried  !  even  now 
Seeing  thee  come  to  that  most  honor'd  end, 
Through  all  the  dangers  which  black  night  presents, 
For  to  convey  me  hence  and  marry  me.  [They  go  in. 

Enter  Carracus,  to  his  appointment. 
Car.  How  pleasing  are  the  steps  we  lovers  make, 
When  in  the  paths  of  our  content  we  pace, 
To  meet  our  longings !  what  happiness  it  is 
For  man  to  love  !  but  oh,  what  greater  bliss 
To  love  and  be  belov'd  !  O  what  one  virtue 
E'er  reign'd  in  me,  that  I  should  be  enrich'd 


THE  HOG  HATH  LOST  HIS  PEARL.  41 

With  all  earth's  good  at  once  ?  I  have  a  friend, 

Selected  by  the  heavens  as  a  gift 

To  make  me  happy  whilst  I  live  on  earth  ; 

A  man  so  rare  of  goodness,  firm  of  faith, 

That  earth's  content  must  vanish  in  his  death. 

Then  for  my  love  and  mistress  of  my  soul, 

A  maid  of  rich  endowments,  beautified 

With  all  the  virtues  nalure  could  bestow 

Upon  mortality,  who  this  happy  night 

Will  make  me  gainer  of  her  heavenly  self. 

And  see,  how  suddenly  I  have  attain'd 

To  the  abode  of  my  desired  wishes  ! 

This  is  the- green  ;  how  dark  the  night  appears ! 

I  cannot  hear  the  tread  of  my  true  friend. 

Albert !  hist,  Albert ! — he's  not  come  as  yet, 

Nor  is  the  appointed  light  set  in  the  window. 

What  if  I  call  Maria  ?  it  may  be 

She  feared  to  set  a  light,  and  only  heark'neth 

To  hear  my  steps ;  and  yet  I  dare  not  call, 

Lest  I  betray  myself,  and  that  my  voice, 

Thinking  to  enter  in  the  ears  of  her, 

Be  of  some  other  heard :  no,  I  will  stay 

Until  the  coming  of  my  dear  friend  Albert. 

But  now  think,  Carracus,  what  end  will  be 

Of  this  thou  dost  determine  :  thou  art  come 

Hither  to  rob  a  father  of  that  wealth 

That  solely  lengthens  his  now  drooping  years, 

His  virtuous  daughter,  and  all  (of  that  sex)  left 

To  make  him  happy  in  his  aged  days. 

The  loss  of  her  may  cause  him  to  despair, 

Transport  his  near-decaying  sense  to  frenzy, 

Or  to  some  such  abhorred  inconveniency 

Whereto  frail  age  is  subject.     I  do  ill  in  this, 

Ami  must  not  think  but  that  a  father's  plaint 

Will  move  the  heavens  to  pour  forth  misery 

Upon  the  head  of  disobe iieney. 

Yet  reason  tells  us,  parents  are  o'erseen, 

When  with  too  strict  a  rein  they  do  hold  in 


49  ENGLISH  DRAMATIC  POETS. 

Their  child's  affections,  and  control  that  love 

Which  the  high  powers  divine  inspire  them  with; 

When  in  their  shallowest  judgments  they  may  know, 

Affection  crost  brings  misery  and  wo. 

But  whilst  I  run  contemplating  on  this, 

I  softly  pace  to  my  desired  bliss. 

I'll  go  into  the  next  field,  where  my  friend 

Told  me  the  horses  were  in  readiness.  [Exit. 

Albert  descending  from  Maria. 

Mar.  But  do  not  stay.     What  if  you  find  not  Albert  ? 

Alb.  I'll  then  return  alone  to  fetch  you  hence. 

Mar.  If  you  should  now  deceive  me,  having  gain'd 
What  you  men  seek  for 

Alb.  Sooner  I'll  deceive 
My  soul — and  so  I  fear  I  have.  [Aside. 

Mar.  At  your  first  call  I  will  descend. 

Alb.  Till  when,  this  touch  of  lips  be  the  true  pledge 
Of  Carracus'  constant  true  devoted  love. 

Mar.  Be  sure  you  stay  not  long  ;  farewell. 
I  cannot  lend  an  ear  to  hear  you  part.  [Maria  goes  in. 

Alb.  But  you  did  lend  a  hand  unto  my  entrance. 

[He  descends. 
Alb.  (solus)  How  have  I  wrong'd  my  friend,  my  faithful  friend  ! 
Robb'd  him  of  what's  more  precious  than  his  blood, 
His  earthly  heaven,  the  unspotted  honor 
Of  his  soul-joying  mistress  !  the  fruition  of  whose  bed 
I  yet  am  warm  of;  whilst  dear  Carracus 
Wanders  this  cold  night  through  the  unshelt'ring  field 
Seeking  me,  treach'rous  man,  yet  no  man  neither, 
Though  in  an  outward  show  of  such  appearance, 
But  am  a  dev'l  indeed,  for  so  this  deed 
Of  wronged  love  and  friendship  rightly  makes  me. 
I  may  compare  my  friend  to  one  that's  sick, 
Who,  lying  on  his  death-bed,  calls  to  him 
His  dearest-thought  friend,  and  bids  him  go 
To  some  rare-gifted  man  that  can  restore 
His  former  health  ;  this  his  friend  sadly  hears, 


THE  HOG  HATH  LOST  HIS  PEARL.  43 

And  vows  with  protestations  to  fulfil 

His  wish'd  desires  with  his  best,  performance ; 

But  then  no  sooner  seeing  that  the  death 

Of  his  sick  friend  would  add  to  him  some  gain, 

Goes  not  to  seek  a  remedy  to  save, 

But  like  a  wretch  hides  him  to  dig  his  grave  ; 

As  I  have  done  for  virtuous  Carracus. 

Yet,  Albert,  be  not  reasonless  to  indanger 

What  thou  may'st  yet  secure.     Who  can  detect 

The  crime  of  thy  licentious  appetite  ? 

I  hear  one's  pace  ;   'tis  surely  Carracus. 

Enter  Carracus. 

Car.  Not  find  my  friend  !  sure  some  malignant  planet 
Rules  o'er  this  night,  and  envying  the  content 
Which  I  in  thought  possess,  debars  me  thus 
From  what  is  more  than  happy,  the  lov'd  presence 
Of  a  dear  friend  and  love. 

Alb.  'Tis  wronged  Carracus  by  Albert's  baseness  : 
I  have  no  power  now  to  reveal  myself. 

Car.  The  horses  stand  at  the  appointed  place, 
And  night's  dark  coverture  makes  firm  our  safety. 
My  friend  is  surely  fall'n  into  a  slumber 
On  some  bank  hereabouts  ;  I  will  call  him. 
Friend,  Albert,  Albert. 

Alb.  Whate'er  you  are  that  call,  you  know  my  name. 

Car.  Aye,  and  thy  heart,  dear  friend. 

[Maria  appears  above. 

Mar.  My  Carracus,  are  you  so  soon  return'd  ? 
I  see,  you'll  keep  your  promise. 

Car.  Who  would  not  do  so  having  past  it  thee, 
Cannot  be  fram'd  of  aught  but  treachery. 
Fairest,  descend,  that  by  our  hence  departing 
We  may  make  firm  the  bliss  of  our  content. 

Mar.  Is  your  friend  Albert  with  you  ? 

Alb.  Yes,  and  your  servant,  honor'd  Lady. 

Mar.  Hold  me  from  falling,  Carracus.  [S/«e  descends. 

Car.  Come,  fair  Maria,  the  troubles  of  this  night 


I  I  ENGLISH  DRAMATIC  POETS. 


A  re  as  fore-runners  to  ensuing  pleasures. 
And,  noble  friend,  although  now  Carraeus 
Set  ins,  in  the  gaining  of  this  beauteous  prize, 
To  keep  from  you  so  much  of  his  lov'd  treasure, 
Which  ought  not  to  be  mixed ;  yet  his  heart 
Shall  so  far  strive  in  your  wish'd  happiness, 
That  if  the  loss  and  ruin  of  itself 
Can  but  avail  your  good — 

Alb.  O  friend,  no  more  ;  come,  you  are  slow  in  haste. 
Friendship  ought  never  be  discuss'd  in  words, 
Till  all  her  deeds  be  finish'd.     Who,  looking  in  a  book, 
And  reads  but  some  part  of  it  only,  cannot  judge 
What  praise  the  whole  deserves,  because  his  knowledge 
Is  grounded  but  on  part — as  thine,  friend,  is, 
Ignorant  of  that  black  mischief  I  have  done  thee. 

[Aside. — Exeunt. 

Albert,  after  the  marriage  of  Carraeus,  struck  with  remorse  for  the 
injury  he  has  done  to  his  friend,  knocks  at  Carracus's  door,  but 
cannot  summon  resolution  to  see  him,  or  to  do  more  than  inquire  after 
his  welfare. 

Alb.  Conscience,  thou  horror  unto  wicked  men, 
When  wilt  thou  cease  thy  all-afflicting  wrath, 
And  set  my  soul  free  from  the  labyrinth 
Of  thy  tormenting  terror  ?     O  but  it  fits  not ! 
Should  I  desire  redress,  or  wish  for  comfort, 
That  have  committed  an  act  so  inhuman, 
Able  to  fill  Shame's  spacious  chronicle  ? 
Who  but  a  damn'd  one  could  have  done  like  me  ? 
Robb'd  my  dear  friend  in  a  short  moment's  time 
Of  his  love's  high-priz'd  gem  of  chastity  : 
That  which  so  many  years  himself  hath  staid  for. 
How  often  hath  he,  as  he  lay  in  bed, 
Sweetly  discours'd  to  me  of  his  Maria  ! 
And  with  what  pleasing  passions  did  he  suffer 
Love's  gentle  war-siege  :  then  he  would  relate 
How  he  first  came  unto  her  fair  eyes'  view ; 
How  Ion";  it  was  e'er  she  could  brook  affection  : 


THE  HOG  HATH  LOST  HIS  PEARL.  45 


And  then  how  constant  she  did  still  abide. 

I  then  at  this  would  joy,  as  if  my  breast 

Had  sympathized  in  equal  happiness 

With  my  true  friend,  but  now,  when  joy  should  be, 

Who  but  a  damn'd  one  would  have  done  like  me  ? 

He  hath  been  married  now  at  least  a  month  ; 

In  all  which  time  I  have  not  once  beheld  him. 

This  is  his  house. 

I'll  call  to  know  his  health,  but  will  not  see  him  ; 

My  looks  would  then  betray  me,  for,  should  he  ask 

My  cause  of  seeming  sadness  or  the  like, 

[  could  not  but  reveal,  and  so  pour  on 

Worse  unto  ill,  which  breeds  confusion.  [He  knocks. 

A  Servant  opens. 

Alb.  Is  the  master  of  the  house  within  ? 

Serv-  Yes,  marry,  is  he,  sir :  would  you  speak  with  him  ? 

Alb.  My  business  is  not  so  troublesome  : 
Is  he  in  health  with  his  late  espoused  wife  ? 

Serv.  Both  are  exceeding  well,  sir. 

Alb.  I  am  truly  glad  on't:  farewell,  good  friend. 

Serv.  I  pray  you,  let's  crave  your  name,  sir ;  I  may  else  have 
anger. 

Alb.  You  may  say,  one  Albert,  riding  by  this  way,  only  in- 
quired their  health. 

Serv.  I  will  acquaint  so  much.  [Exit  Seri'ant. 

Alb.  How  like  a  poisonous  doctor  have  I  come 
To  inquire  their  welfare,  knowing  that  myself 
Have  giv'n  the  potion  of  their  ne'er-recovery  ; 
For  which  I  will  afflict  myself  with  torture  ever. 
And  since  the  earth  yields  not  a  remedy 
Able  to  salve  the  sores  my  lust  hath  made, 
I'll  now  take  farewell  of  society, 
And  the  abode  of  men,  to  entertain  a  life 
Fitting  my  fellowship  in  desart  woods, 
Where  beasts  like  me  consort ;  there  may  I  live, 
Far  off  from  wronging  virtuous  Carracus. 
There's  no  Maria,,  that  shall  satisfy 


46  ENGLISH  DRAMATIC  POETS. 

My  hateful  lust  :  the  trees  shall  shelter 

This  wretched  trunk  of  mine,  upon  whose  harks 

I  will  engrave  the  story  of  my  sin. 

And  there  this  short  breath  of- mortality 

I'll  finish  up  in  that  repentant  state, 

Whore  not  the  allurements  of  earth's  vanities 

Can  e'er  o'ertake  me :  there's  no  baits  for  lust, 

No  friend  to  ruin  ;   I  shall  then  be  free 

From  practising  the  art  of  treachery. 

Thither  then,  steps,  where  such  content  abides, 

Where  penitency  not  disturb'd  may  grieve, 

Where  on  each  tree  and  springing  plant  I'll  carve 

This  heavy  motto  of  my  misery, 

Who  but  a  danm'd  one  could  have  done  like  me  ? 


THE  TRAGEDY  OF  NERO.     AUTHOR  UNCERTAIN 

Scenical  Personation. 
'Tis  better  in  a  play 
Be  Agamemnon,  than  himself  indeed. 
How  oft,  with  danger  of  the  field  beset, 
Or  with  home-mutinies,  would  he  un-be 
Himself;  or,  over  cruel  altars  weeping, 
Wish,  that  with  putting  off  a  vizard  he 
Might  his  true  inward  sorrow  lay  aside ' 
The  shows  of  things  are  better  than  themselves, 
How  doth  it  stir  this  airy  part  of  us 
To  hear  our  poets  tell  imagin'd  fights 
And  the  strange  blows  that  feigned  courage  gives. 
When  I  Achilles  hear  upon  the  Stage 
Speak  honor  and  the  greatness  of  his  soul, 
Methinks  I  too  could  on  a  Phrygian  spear 
Run  boldly,  and  make  tales  for  after  times : 
But  when  we  come  to  act  it  in  the  deed, 
Death  mars  this  bravery,  and  the  ugly  fears 
Of  th'  other  world  sit  on  the  proudest  brow : 
And  boasting  valor  loseth  his  red  cheek. 


THE  MERRY  DEVIL  OE  EDMONTON.  47 

THE  MERRY  DEVIL  OF  EDMONTON. 
AUTHOR  UNCERTAIN.* 

Millisent,  the  fair  daughter  of  Clare,  was  betrothed,  with  the  consent  of 
her  parents,  to  Raymond,  son  of  Mounchensey  ;  but  the  elder  Moun- 
chensey,  being  since  fallen  in  his  fortunes,  Clare  revokes  his  cons,  at 
and  plots  a  marriage  jor  his  daughter  with  the  rich  heir  of  Jerning- 
ham.  Peter  Fabel,  a  good  magician,  ivho  had  been  Tutor  to  young 
Raymorid  Mounchensey  at  College,  determines  by  the  aid  of  his  art  to 
assist  his  pupil  in  obtaining  fair  Millisent. 

Peter  Fabel,  solus. 
Fab.  Good  old  Mounchensey,  is  thy  hap  so  ill, 
That  for  thy  bounty  and  thy  royal  parts, 
Thy  kind  alliance  should  be  held  in  scorn  ; 
And  after  all  these  promises  by  Clare, 
Refuse  to  give  his  daughter  to  thy  son, 
Only  because  thy  revenues  cannot  reach 
To  make  her  dowage  of  so  rich  a  jointure, 
As  can  the  heir  of  wealthy  Jerningham  ? 
And  therefore  is  the  false  fox  now  in  hand 
To  strike  a  match  betwixt  her  and  the  other, 
And  the  old  grey-beards  now  are  close  together, 
Plotting  in  the  garden.     Is  it  even  so  ? 
Raymond  Mounchensey,  boy,  have  thou  and  I 
Thus  long  at  Cambridge  read  the  liberal  arts, 
The  metaphysics,  magic,  and  those  parts 
Of  the  most  secret  deep  philosophy  1 
Have  1  so  many  melancholy  nights 
Watch'd  on  the  top  of  Peter  House  highest  tower  ? 
And  come  we  back  unto  our  native  home, 
For  want  of  skill  to  lose  the  wench  thou  lovest  ? 
We'll  first  hang  Envilf  in  such  rings  of  mist, 
As  never  rose  from  any  dampish  fen ; 
I'll  make  the  brinish  sea  to  rise  at  Ware, 
And  drown  the  marshes  unto  Stratford  bridge ; 

*  It  has  been  ascribed  without  much  proof  to  Shakspeare,  and  to  Michael 
Drayton. 
t  Enfield. 


48  ENGLISH  DRAMATIC  POETS. 


I'll  drive  the  deer  from  Waltham  in  their  walks, 
And  scatter  them  like  sheep  in  every  field. 
We  may  perhaps  be  crost ;  but  if  we  be, 
He  shall  cross  the  devil  that  but  crosses  me. 
But  here  comes  Raymond,  disconsolate  and  sad  ; 
And  here  comes  the  gallant  must  have  his  wench. 

Enter  Raymond  Mounchensey,  young  Jerningham,  ana 
young  Clare. 

Jern.   1  prithee,  Raymond,  leave  these  solemn  dumps, 
Revive  thy  spirits ;  thou  that  before  hast  been 
More  watchful  than  the  day-proclaiming  cock, 
As  sportive  as  a  kid,  as  frank  and  merry 
As  mirth  herself. — 

If  aught  in  me  may  thy  content  procure, 
It  is  thy  own,  thou  mayst  thyself  assure. 

Raym.  Ha  !  Jerningham,  if  any  but  thyself 
Had  spoke  that  word,  it  would  have  come  as  cold 
As  the  bleak  northern  winds  upon  the  face  of  winter, 
From  thee  they  have  some  power  on  my  blood ; 
Yet  beinsr  from  thee,  had  but  that  hollow  sound 
Come  from  the  lips  of  any  living  man, 
It  might  have  won  the  credit  of  mine  ear, 
From  thee  it  cannot. 

Jem.  If  I  understand  thee  I  am  a  villain  : 
What !  dost  thou  speak  in  parables  to  thy  friend  ; 

Fab.  (to  Jern.)  You  are  the  man,  sir,  must  have  Millisent, 
The  match  is  making  in  the  garden  now  ; 
Her  jointure  is  agreed  on,  and  the  old  men. 
Your  fathers,  mean  to  launch  their  pursy  bags, 
But  in  mean  time  to  thrust  Mounchensey  off, 
For  color  of  this  new  intended  match. 
Fair  Millisent  to  Cheston*  must  be  sent, 
To  take  the  approbation  of  a  Nun. 
Ne'er  look  upon  me,  lad,  the  match  is  done. 

Jern.  Raymond  Mounchensey,  now  I  touch  thy  grief 
With  the  true  feeling  of  a  zealous  friend. 

*  Cheshunt. 


THE  MERRY  DEVIL  OF  EDMONTON.  49 


And  as  for  thy  fair  beauteous  Millisent, 
With  my  vain  breath  I  will  not  seek  to  slubber 
Her  angel-like  perfections.     But  thou  know'st 
That  Essex  hath  the  saint  that  I  adore. 
Where'er  didst  meet  me,  that  we  two  were  jovial, 
But  like  a  wag  thou  hast  not  laughed  at  me, 
And  with  regardless  jesting  mock'd  my  love  ? 
How  many  a  sad  and  weary  summer's  night 
My  sighs  have  drunk  the  dew  from  oft* the  earth, 
And  I  have  taught  the  nightingale  to  wake, 
And  from  the  meadows  sprung  the  early  lark 
An  hour  before  she  should  have  list  to  sin<j  ? 
I  have  loaded  the  poor  minutes  with  my  moans, 
That  I  have  made  the  heavy  slow  pac'd  hours 
To  hang  like  heavy  clogs  upon  the  day. 
But,  dear  Mounchensey,  had  not  my  affection 
Seiz'd  on  the  beauty  of  another  dame, 
Before  I'd  wrong  the  chase,  and  leave  the  love 
Of  one  so  worthy,  and  so  true  a  friend, 
1  will  abjure  both  beauty  and  her  sight, 
And  will  in  love  become  a  counterfeit. 

Raym.  Dear  Jerningham,  thou  hast  begot  my  life, 
And  from  the  mouth  of  hell,  where  now  I  sat, 
I  feel  my  spirit  rebound  against  the  stars ; 
Thou  hast  conquer'd  me,  dear  friend,  and  my  free  soul 
Nor  time  nor  death  can  by  their  power  control. 

Fab.  Frank  Jerningham,  thou  art  a  gallant  boy  ; 
And  were  he  not  my  pupil,  I  would  say, 
He  were  as  fine  a  metal 'd  Gentleman, 
Of  as  free  a  spirit,  and  as  fine  a  temper, 
As  any  in  England  ;  and  he  is  a  man, 
That  very  richly  may  deserve  thy  love. 
But,  noble  Clare,  this  while  of  our  discourse, 
What  may  Mounchensey's  honor  to  thyself 
Exact  upon  the  measure  of  thy  grace  ? 

Cla.  Raymond  Mounchensey,  I  would  have  thee  know, 
He  does  not  breathe  this  air, 
Whose  love  I  cherish,  and  whose  soul  I  love, 

PART    I.  5 


DO  ENGLISH  DRAMATIC  POETS. 


More  than  Mounchensej 

Nor  ever  in  my  life  did  see  the  man, 

Whom  for  his  wit,  and  many  virtuous  parts, 

I  think  more  worthy  of  my  sister's  love. 

But  since  the  matter  grows  into  thL  pass, 

I  must  not  seem  to  cross  my  father's  will ; 

But  when  thou  list  to  visit  her  by  night, 

My  horse  is  saddled,  and  the  stable  door 

Stands  ready  for  thee  ;  use  them  at  thy  pleasure. 

In  honest  marriage  wed  her  frankly,  boy  ; 

And  if  thou  getst  her,  lad,  God  give  thee  joy. 

Ray m.  Then  care  away !  let  fate  my  fall  pretend, 
Back'd  with  the  favors  of  so  true  a  friend. 

Fab.  Let  us  alone  to  bustle  for  the  set ; 
For  age  and  craft  with  wit  and  art  hath  met. 
I'll  make  my  Spirits  dance  such  nightly  jigs 
Along  the  way  'twixt  this  and  Tot'nam  Cross, 
The  Carriers'  Jades  shall  cast  their  heavy  packs, 
And  the  strong  hedges  scarce  shall  keep  them  in. 
The  milk-maids'  cuts  shall  turn  the  wenches  off, 
And  lay  their  dossers  tumbling  in  the  dust : 
The  frank  and  merry  London  Prentices, 
That  come  for  cream  and  lusty  country  cheer, 
Shall  lose  their  way,  and  scrambling  in  the  ditches 
All  night,  shall  whoop  and  hollow,  cry,  and  call, 
And  none  to  other  find  the  way  at  all. 

Raym.  Pursue  the  project,  scholar  ;  what  we  can  do 
To  help  endeavor,  join  our  lives  thereto.* 

*  This  scene  has  much  of  Shakspeare's  manner  in  the  sweetness  and 
goodnaturedness  of  it.  It  seems  written  to  make  the  reader  happy.  Few 
of  our  dramatists  or  novelists  have  attended  enough  to  this.  They  torture 
and  wound  us  abundantly.  They  are  economists  only  in  delight.  Nothing 
can  be  finer,  more  gentlemanlike,  and  noble,  than  the  conversation  and 
compliments  of  these  young  men.  How  delicious  is  Raymond  Mounchen- 
sey's  forgetting,  in  his  fears,  that  Jerningham  has  a  "  Saint  in  Essex :"  and 
how  sweetly  his  friend  reminds  him  ! — I  wish  it  could  be  ascertained  that 
Michael  Drayton  was  the  author  of  this  piece  :  it  would  add  a  worthy  ap- 
pendage to  the  renown  of  that  Panegyrist  of  my  native  Earth  ;  who  has 
gone  over  her  soil  (in  his  Polyolbion)  with  the  fidelity  of  a  herald,  and  the 


THE  MERRY  DEVIL  OF  EDMONTON.  51 


The  Prioress  of  Cheston's  charge  to  fair  Milliscnt. 
Jesus'  daughter,  Mary's  child, 
Holy  matron,  woman  mild, 
For  thee  a  Mass  shall  still  be  said, 
Every  sister  drop  a  bead 
And  those  again,  succeeding  them, 
For  you  shall  sing  a  Requiem. 

To  her  Father.  May  your  soul  be  blithe, 
That  so  truly  pay  your  tythe  ; 
He,  that  many  children  gave, 
'Tis  fit  that  he  one  child  should  have. 

To  Millisent.  Then,  fair  virgin,  hear  my  spell, 
For  I  must  your  duty  tell. 
First  at  mornings  take  your  book, 
The  glass  wherein  yourself  must  look  ; 
Your  young  thoughts  so  proud  and  jolly 
Must  be  turn'd  to  motions  holy ; 
For  your  busk,  attires  and  toys, 
Have  your  thoughts  on  heavenly  joys  : 
And  for  all  your  follies  past, 
You  must  do  penance,  pray  and  fast. 
You  shall  ring  the  sacring  bell, 
Keep  your  hours,  and  tell  your  knell. 
Rise  at  midnight  to  your  matins, 
Read  your  psalter,  sing  your  Latins  ; 
And  when  your  blood  shall  kindle  pleasure, 
Scourge  yourself  in  plenteous  measure. 
You  must  read  the  morning  mass, 
You  must  creep  unto  the  cross, 
Put  cold  ashes  on  your  head, 
Have  a  hair-cloth  for  vour  bed, 
Bind  your  beads  and  tell  your  needs, 
Your  holy  Avcs  and  your  Creeds ; 
Holy  maid,  this  must  be  done, 
If  you  mean  to  live  a  Nun. 

painful  love  of  a  son  ;  who  has  not  left  a  rivulet  (so  narrow  that  it  may  be 
stept  over)  with'  t  honorable  mention :  and  has  animated  Hills  and 
Streams  with  lillu;.;id  passion  above  the  dreams  o,   old  mythology. 


52  ENGLISH  DRAMATIC  POETS. 


GREEN'S  TU  QUOQUE ;  OR,  THE  CITY  GALLANT.  .A  COMEDY. 

BY  JOSEPH  COOKE. 

Men  more  niggardly  of  their  love  than  women. 
Thrice  happy  days  they  were,  and  too  soon  gone, 
When  as  the  heart  was  coupled  with  the  tongue  ; 
And  no  deceitful  flattery,  or  guile 
Iluno-  on  the  lover's  tear-commixed  smile. 
Could  women  learn  but  that  impcriousness, 
By  which  men  use  to  stint  our  happiness 
(When  they  have  purchas'd  us  for  to  be  theirs 
By  customary  sighs  and  forced  tears) 
To  give  us  bits  of  kindness,  lest  we  faint, 
But  no  abundance  ;  that  we  ever  want, 
And  still  are  begging  :  which  too  well  they  know 
Endears  affection,  and  doth  make  it  grow. 
Had  we  those  sleights,  how  happy  were  we  then 
That  we  might  glory  over  love-sick  men  ! 
But  arts  we  know  not,  nor  have  any  skill 
To  feign  a  sour  look  to  a  pleasing  will ; 
Nor  couch  a  secret  love  in  show  of  hate : 
But,  if  we  like,  must  be  compassionate.* 

Adversity. 
How  ruthless  men  are  to  adversity  ! 
My  acquaintance  scarce  will  know  me  ;  when  we  meet 
They  cannot  stay  to  talk,  they  must  be  gone  ; 
And  shake  me  by  the  hand  as  if  I  burnt  them. 

Prodigality. 
That  which  gilded  over  his  imperfections, 
Is  wasted  and  consumed,  even  like  ice, 
Which  by  the  vehemence  of  heat  dissolves, 
And  glides  to  many  rivers  ;  so  his  wealth, 
That  felt  a  prodigal  hand,  hot  in  expense, 
Melted  within  his  gripe,  and  from  his  coffers 
Ran  like  a  violent  stream  to  other  men's. 

*  This  is  so  like  Shakspeare,  that  one  seems  almost  h,  remember  it  as  a 
speech  of  Desdemona's,  upon  perceiving  an  alteration  in  tfe  behavior  of  the 
Moor. 


OLD  FORTUNATUS.  53 


THE  COMEDY  OF  OLD  FORTUNATUS.  BY  THOMAS  DECKER. 

The  Goddess  Fortune  appears  to  Fortunatus,  and  offers  him  the  choice  of 
six  things.     He  chooses  Riches. 

Fortune.     Fortunatus. 

Fortune.  Before  thy  soul  at  this  deep  lottery- 
Draw  forth  her  prize,  ordain'd  by  destiny, 
Know  that  here's  no  recanting  a  first  choice. 
Choose  then  discreetly  :  for  the  laws  of  fate, 
Being  grav'n  in  steel,  must  stand  inviolate. 

Fortunat.  Daughters  of  Jove  and  the  unblemish'd  Night, 
Most  righteous  Parcse,  guide  my  genius  right : 
Wisdom,  Strength,  Health,  Beauty,  Long  Life,  and  Riches. 

Fortune.  Stay,  Fortunatus  ;  once  more  hear  me  speak. 
If  thou  kiss  Wisdom's  cheek  and  make  her  thine, 
She'll  breathe  into  thy  lips  divinity, 
And  thou  (like  Phoebus)  shall  speak  oracle  ; 
Thy  heav'n-inspired  soul  on  Wisdom's  wings 
Shall  fly  up  to  the  Parliament  of  Jove, 
And  read  the  Statutes  of  Eternity, 
And  see  what's  past  and  learn  what  is  to  come. 
If  thou  lay  claim  to  Strength,  armies  shall  quake 
To  see  thee  frown :  as  Kings  at  mine  do  lie, 
So  shall  thy  feet  trample  on  empery. 
Make  Health  thine  object,  thou  shalt  be  strong  proof 
'Gainst  the  deep  searching  darts  of  surfeiting, 
Be  ever  merry,  ever  revelling. 
Wish  but  for  Beauty,  and  within  thine  eyes 
Two  naked  Cupids  amorously  shall  swim, 
And  on  thy  cheeks  I'll  mix  such  white  and  red, 
That  Jove  shall  turn  away  young  Ganimede, 
And  with  immortal  arms  shall  circle  thee. 
Are  thy  desires  Long  Life  ?  thy  vital  thread 
Shall  be  stretch'd  out,  thou  shalt  behold  the  change 
Of  monarchies,  and  see  those  children  die 
Whose  great  great  grandsires  now  in  cradles  lie. 
If  through  Gold's  sacred  hunger  thou  dost  pine  ; 


54  ENGLISH  DRAMATIC  POETS. 

Those  gilded  wantons  which  in  swarms  do  run 
To  warm  their  slender  bodies  in  the  sun, 
Shall  stand  for  number  of  those  golden  piles 
Which  in  rich  pride  shall  swell  before  thy  feet : 
As  those  are,  so  shall  these  be  infinite. 

Fortunai.  O  whither  am  I  wrapt  beyond  myself? 
More  violent  conflicts  fight  in  every  thought 
Than  his  whose  fatal  choice  Troy's  downfall  wrought. 
Shall  I  contract  myself  to  Wisdom's  love  ? 
Then  [  lose  Riches ;  and  a  wise  man  pom- 
Is  like  a  sacred  book  that's  never  read  ; 
To  himself  he  lives  and  to  all  else  seems  dead. 
This  age  thinks  better  of  a  gilded  fool, 
Than  of  a  threadbare  saint  in  Wisdom's  school. 
I  will  be  Strong  :  then  I  refuse  Long  Life  ; 
And  though  mine  arm  should  conquer  twenty  worlds, 
There's  a  lean  fellow  beats  all  conquerors : 
The  greatest  Strength  expires  with  loss  of  breath, 
The  mightiest  in  one  minute  stoop  to  death. 
Then  take  Long  Life,  or  Health  ;  should  I  do  so, 
I  might  grow  ugly,  and  that  tedious  scroll 
Of  months  and  years  much  misery  might  enroll  : 
Therefore  I'll  beg  for  Beauty  ;  yet  I  will  not  : 
The  fairest  cheek  hath  oftentimes  a  soul 
Leprous  as  sin  itself,  than  hell  more  foul. 
The  Wisdom  of  this  world  is  idiotism  ; 
Strength  a  week  reed  ;  Health  Sickness'  enemy, 
And  it  at  length  will  have  the  victory. 
Beauty  is  but  a  painting  ;  and  Long  Life 
Is  a  long  journey  in  December  gone, 
Tedious  and  full  of  tribulation, 
Therefore  dread  sacred  Empress,  make  me  rich : 
My  choice  is  Store  of  Gold ;  the  Rich  are  Wise, 
He  that  upon  his  back  rich  garments  wears 
Is  Wise,  though  on  his  head  grow  Midas'  ears. 
Gold  is  the  Strength,  the  Sinews  of  the  world, 
The  Health,  the  Soul,  the  Beauty  most  divine  ; 
A  mask  c  f  gold  hides  all  deformities  ; 


OLD  FORTUNATUS.  55 

Gold  is  heaven's  physic,  life's  restorative  ; 
Oh  therefore  make  me  Rich. 

Fortune  gives  to  Fortunatus  a  purse  that  is  inexhaustible.  With  this  he 
puts  on  costly  attire,  and  visits  all  the  Asian  Courts,  where  he  is  ca- 
ressed and  made  much  of  for  his  infinite  wealth.  At  Babylon  lit  is 
shown  by  the  Soldan  a  wondrous  hat,  which  in  a  wish  transports  the 
wearer  whithersoever  he  pleases,  over  land  and  sea.  Fortunatus  jiuts  it 
on,  wishes  himself  at  home  in  Cyprus;  where  he  arrives  in  a  minute, 
as  his  sons  Ampedo  and  Andelocia  are  talking  of  him;  and  tells  his 
Travels. 

FoRTTJNATUS.       A3IPED0.       ANDELOCIA. 

Fort.  Touch  me  not,  boys,  I  am  nothing  but  air,  let  none  speak 
to  me  till  you  have  marked  me  well. — Am  I  as  you  are,  or  am  I 
transformed  ? 

And.  Methinks,  father,  you  look  as  you  did,  only  your  face  is 
more  withered. 

Fort.  Boys,  be  proud  ;  your  father  hath  the  whole  world  in  this 
compass.  I  am  all  felicity  up  to  the  brims.  In  a  minute  am  I 
come  from  Babylon ;   [  have  been  this  half  hour  in  Farmagosta. 

And.  How  !  in  a  minute,  father  ?     I  see  travellers  must  lie. 

Fort.  I  have  cut  through  the  air  like  a  falcon.  I  would  have 
it  seem  strange  to  you.  But  'tis  true.  I  would  not  have  you 
believe  it  neither.  But  'tis  miraculous  and  true.  Desire  to  see 
you  brought  me  to  Cyprus.  I'll  leave  you  more  gold,  and  go  to 
visit  more  countries. 

Amp.  The  frosty  hand  of  age  now  nips  your  blood, 
And  strews  her  snowy  flowers  upon  your  head, 
And  gives  you  warning  that  within  few  years 
Death  needs  must  marry  you :  those  short  lines,  minutes, 
That  dribble  out  your  life,  must  needs  be  spent 
In  peace,  not  travel ;   rest  in  Cyprus  then. 
Could  you  survey  ten  worlds,  yet  you  must  die  ; 
And  bitter  is  the  sweet  that's  reaped  thereby. 

And.  Faith,  father,  what  pleasure  have  you  met  by  walking 
your  stations  .' 

Fort.  What  pleasure,  boy  ?  I  have  revelled  with  Kings, 
danced  with  Queens,  dallied  with  Ladies:  worn  strange  attires; 


56  ENGLISH  DRAMATIC  POETS. 

seen  Fantasticocs ;  conversed  with  Humorists ;  been  ravished 
with  divine  raptuns  of  Doric,  Lydian  and  Phrygian  harmonies; 
I  have  spent  the  day  in  triumphs  and  the  night  in  banquetting. 

And.  O  rare :  this  was  heavenly. — He  that  would  not  be  an 
Arabian  Phoenix  to  burn  in  these  sweet  fires,  let  him  live  like  an 
owl  for  the  world  to  wonder  at. 

Amp.  Why,  brother,  are  not  all  these  Vanities  ? 

Fort.  Vanities  !  Ampedo,  thy  soul  is  made  of  lead,  too  dull, 
too  ponderous,  to  mount  up  to  the  incomprehensible  glory  that 
Travel  lifts  men  to. 

And.  Sweeten  mine  ears,  good  father,  with  some  more. 

Fort.  When  in  the  warmth  of  mine  own  country's  arms 
We  yawn'd  like  sluggards,  when  this  small  horizon 
Imprison'd  up  my  body,  then  mine  eyes 
Worshipp'd  these  clouds  as  brightest :  but,  my  boys, 
The  glist'ring  beams  which  do  abroad  appear 
In  other  heavens,  fire  is  not  half  so  clear. 
For  still  in  all  the  regions  I  have  seen, 
I  scorn'd  to  crowd  among  the  muddy  throng 
Of  the  rank  multitude,  whose  thicken'd  breath 
(Like  to  condensed  fogs)  do  choke  that  beauty, 
Which  else  would  dwell  in  every  Kingdom's  cheek. 
No  ;  I  still  boldly  stept  into  their  Courts : 
For  there  to  live  'tis  rare,  O  'tis  divine, 
There  shall  you  see  faces  angelical ; 
There  shall  you  see  troops  of  chaste  Goddesses, 
Whose  star-like  eyes  have  power  (might  they  still  shine) 
To  make  night  day,  and  day  more  crystalline. 
Near  these  you  shall  behold  great  Heroes, 
White-headed  Councillors,  and  Jovial  Spirits, 
Standing  like  fiery  Cherubim  to  guard 
The  monarch,  who  in  godlike  glory  sits 
In  midst  of  these,  as  if  this  deity 
Had  with  a  look  created  a  new  world, 
The  slanders  by  being  the  fair  workmanship. 

And.  Oh  how  my  soul  is  rapt  to  a  Third  Heaven  ! 
I'll  travel  sure,  and  live  with  none  but  Kings. 

Amp.  But  tell  me,  father,  have  you  in  all  Courts 


OLD  FORTUNATUS.  57 


Beheld  such  glory,  so  majestical, 
In  all  perfection,  no  way  blemished  1 

Fort.  In  some  Courts  shall  you  see  Ambition 
Sit,  piecing  Daxlalus's  old  waxen  wings  ; 
But  being  clapt  on,  and  they  about  to  fly, 
Even  when  their  hopes  are  busied  in  the  clouds, 
They  melt  again  the  sun  of  Majesty, 
And  down  they  tumble  to  destruction. 
By  travel,  boys,  I  have  seen  all  these  things. 
Fantastic  Compliment  stalks  up  and  down, 
Trickt  in  outlandish  feathers  ;  all  his  words, 
His  looks,  his  oaths,  are  all  ridiculous, 
All  apish,  childish,  and  Italianate.     *  *  * 

Orleans  to  his  friend  Galloway  defends  the  passion  with  which  {being 
a  prisoner  in  the  English  king's  court)  he  is  enamored  to  frenzy  of 
the  king's  daughter  Agripyna. 

Orleans.     Galloway. 

Orl.  This  music  makes  me  but  more  out  of  tune. 
O  Agripyna. 

Gall.  Gentle  friend,  no  more. 
Thou  say'st  Love  is  a  madness  :   hate  it  then, 
Even  for  the  name's  sake. 

Orl.  O  I  love  that  madness, 
Even  for  the  name's  sake. 

Gall.  Let  me  tame  this  frenzy, 
By  telling  thee  thou  art  a  prisoner  here, 
By  telling  thee  she's  daughter  to  a  King, 
By  telling  thee  the  King  of  Cyprus'  son 
Shines  like  a  sun  between  her  looks  and  thine, 
Whilst  thou  seem'st  but  a  star  to  Agripyne. 
He  loves  her. 

Orl.  If  he  do,  why  so  do  I. 

Gall.  Love  is  ambitious  and  loves  Majesty. 

Orl.  Dear  friend,  thou  art  deceiv'd  :  Love's  voice  doth  sing 
As  sweetly  in  a  beggar  as  a  king. 

Gall.  Dear  friend,  thou  art  deceiv'd  :  O  bid  thy  soul 
Lift  up  her  intellectual  eyes  to  heaven, 


GS  ENGLISH  DRAMATIC  POETS. 

And  in  this  ample  book  of  wonders  read, 
Of  what  celestial  mould,  w  hat  sacred  essence, 
Her  self  is  form'd  :  the  search  whereof  will  drive 
Sounds  musical  among  the  jarring  spirits, 
And  in  sweet  tune  set  that  which  none  inherits. 

Orl.  I'll  gaze  on  heaven  if  Agripyne  be  there. 
If  not:  fa,  la,  la,  Sol,  la,  &c. 

Gall.  O  call  this  madness  in  :  see,  from  the  windows 
Of  every  eye  Derision  thrusts  out  cheeks 
Wrinkled  with  idiot  laughter ;  every  linger 
Is  like  a  dart  shot  from  the  hand  of  Scorn, 
By  which  thy  name  is  hurt,  thy  honor  torn. 

Orl.  Laugh  they  at  me,  sweet  Galloway  ? 

Gall.  Even  at  thee. 

Orl.  Ha,  ha,  I  laugh  at  them  :  are  they  not  mad, 
That  let  my  true  true  sorrow  make  them  glad  ? 
I  dance  and  sing  only  to  anger  Grief, 
That  in  his  anger  he  might  smite  life  down 
With  his  iron  fist :  good  heart !  it  seemeth  then, 
They  laugh  to  see  grief  kill  me :  O  fond  Men, 
You  laugh  at  others'  tears  ;   when  others  smile, 
You  tear  yourselves  in  pieces  ;  vile,  vile,  vile. 
Ha,  ha,  when  I  behold  a  swarm  of  Fools 
Crowding  together  to  be  counted  Wise, 
I  laugh  because  sweet  Agripyne's  not  there, 
But  weep  because  she  is  not  any  where ; 
And  weep  because  (whether  she  be  or  not) 
My  love  was  ever  and  is  still  forgot ■   forgot,  forgot,  forgot. 

Gall.  Draw7  back  this  stream  :  why  should  my  Orleans  mourn  ? 

Orl.  Look  yonder,  Galloway,  dost  thou  see  that  sun  1 
Nay,  good  friend,  stare  upon  it,  mark  it  well : 
Ere  he  be  two  hours  elder,  all  that  glory 
Is  banish'd  heaven,  and  then,  for  grief,  this  sky 
(That's  now  so  jocund)  will  mourn  all  in  black. 
And  shall  not  Orleans  mourn  ?  alack,  alack  : 
O  what  a  savage  tyranny  it  were 
To  enforce  Care  laugh,  and  Wo  not  shed  a  tear ! 
Dead  is  my  Love  ;  I  am  buried  in  her  scorn  : 


OLD  F0RT1  IN  VTUS.  SO 


That  is  my  sunset;  and  shall  I  not  mourn  ! 
Yes  by  my  troth  I  will. 

Gall.  Dear  friend  forbear  ; 
Beauty  (like  Sorrow)  dwelleth  every  where. 
Rase  out  this  strong  idea  of  her  face  : 
As  fair  as  her's  shineth  in  any  place. 

0/7.  Thou  art  a  Traitor  to  that  White  and  Red, 
Which  sitting  on  her  cheeks  (being  Cupid's  throne) 
Is  my  heart's  Soveraine  :  O  when  she  is  dead, 
This  wonder  (beauty)  shall  be  found  in  none. 
Now  Agripyne's  not  mine,  I  vow  to  be 
In  love  with  nothing  but  deformity. 
O  fair  Deformity.  I  muse  all  eyes 
Are  not  enamor'd  of  thee :  thou  didst  never 
Murder  men's  hearts,  or  let  them  pine  like  wax 
Melting  against  the  sun  of  thy  destiny  ; 
Thou  art  a  faithful  nurse  to  Chastity ; 
Thy  beauty  is  not  like  to  Agripyne's, 
For  cares,  and  age,  and  sickness  her's  deface, 
But  thine's  eternal  :  O  Deformity, 
Thy  fairness  is  not  like  to  Agripyne's, 
For  (dead)  her  beauty  will  no  beauty  have, 
But  thv  face  looks  most  lovelv  in  the  grave. 


»' 


[The  humor  of  a  frantic  Lover  is  here  done  to  the  life.  Orleans  is  as 
passionate  an  Inamorato  as  any  which  Shakspeare  ever  drew.  He  is  just 
such  another  adept  in  Love's  reasons.  The  sober  people  of  the  world  are 
with  him 

a  swarm  of  fools 
Crowding  together  to  be  counted  wise. 

He  talks  "  pure  Biron  and  Romeo,"  he  is  almost  as  poetical  as  they, 
quite  as  philosophical,  only  a  little  madder.  After  all,  Love's  Sectaries  are 
a  "reason  unto  themselves."  We  have  gone  retrograde  in  the  noble 
Heresy  since  the  days  when  Sidney  proselyted  our  nation  to  this  mixed 
health  and  disease;  the  kindliest  symptom  yet  the  mi  st  alarming  crisis  ia 
the  ticklish  state  of  youth;  the  nourisher  and  the  destroyed  of  hopeful 
wits  :  the  mother  of  twin-birds,  wisdom  and  folly,  valor  and  weakness  ;  the 
servitude  above  freedom  ;  the  gentle  mind's  religion:  the  liberal  supersti- 
tion.] 


60  ENGLISH  DRAMATIC  POETS. 


SATIRO-MASTIX,  OR  THE   UNTRUSSING   OF   THE- HUMOROUS 
POET.     BY  THOMAS  DECKER. 

The  King  exacts  an  oath  from  Sir  Walter  Terill  to  send  his  Bride 
Ccelestina  to  Court  on  the  marriage  night.  Her  Father,  to  save  her 
honor,  gives  her  a  poisonous  mixture  which  she  swallows. 

Terill.     C^lestina.     Father. 

Cad.  Why  didst  thou  swear  ? 

Ter.  The  King 
Sat  heavy  on  my  resolution, 
Till  (out  of  breath)  it  panted  out  an  oath. 

Ccel.  An  oath  !  why,  what's  an  oath  ?  'tis  but  the  smoke 
Of  flame  and  blood  ;  the  blister  of  the  spirit 
Which  riseth  from  the  steam  of  rage,  the  bubble 
That  shoots  up  to  the  tongue  and  scalds  the  voice 
(For  oaths  are  burning  words).     Thou  swor'st  but  one, 
'Tis  frozen  long  ago  :  if  one  be  number'd, 
What  countrymen  are  they,  where  do  they  dwell, 
That  speak  nought  else  but  oaths  ? 

Ter.  They  're  Men  of  Hell. 
An  oath  !  why  'tis  the  traffic  of  the  soul, 
'Tis  law  within  a  man  ;  the  seal  of  faith, 
The  bond  of  every  conscience  ;  unto  whom 
We  set  our  thoughts  like  hands  ;  yea,  such  a  one 
I  swore,  and  to  the  King  ;  a  King  contains 
A  thousand  thousand ;   when  I  swore  to  him, 
I  swore  to  them ;  the  very  hairs  that  guard 
His  head  will  rise  up  like  sharp  witnesses 
Against  my  faith  and  loyalty :  his  eye 
Would  straight  condemn  me :  argue  oaths  no  more  ; 
My  oath  is  high,  for  to  the  King  I  swore. 

Ccel.  Must  I  betray  my  chastity,  so  long 
Clean  from  the  treason  of  rebelling  lust  ? 
O  husband,  O  my  father,  if  poor  I 
Must  not  live  chaste,  then  let  me  chastely  die. 

Fath.  Aye,  here's  a  charm  shall  keep  thee  chaste,  come,  come. 
Old  time  hath  left  us  but  an  hour  to  play 


SATIRO-MASTIX.  Gl 


Our  parts;  begin  the  scene  ;   who  shall  speak  first  ? 

Oh  I,  I  play  the  King,  and  Kings  speak  first : 

Daughter,  stand  thou  here,  thou  son  Terill  there ; 

We  need  no  prologue,  the  King  entering  first 

He  's  a  most  gracious  Prologue  :  marry,  then 

For  the  catastrophe  or  Epilogue, 

There's  one  in  cloth  of  silver,  which  no  doubt 

Will  please  the  hearers  well  when  he  steps  out ; 

His  mouth  is  filled  with  words  :  see  where  he  stands : 

He  '11  make  them  clap  their  eyes  besides  their  hands. 

But  to  my  part :  suppose  who  enters  now, 

A  King  whose  eyes  are  set  in  silver ;  one 

That  blusheth  gold,  speaks  music,  dancing  walks, 

Now  gathers  nearer,  takes  thee  by  the  hand, 

When  straight  thou  think'st  the  very  orb  of  heaven, 

Moves  round  about  thy  fingers  ;  then  he  speaks, 

Thus — thus — I  know  not  how. 

CcfL  Nor  I  to  answer  him. 

Fath.  No,  girl,  know'st  thou  not  how  to  answer  him  ? 
Why,  then,  the  field  is  lost,  and  he  rides  home 
Like  a  great  conqueror :  not  answer  him  ! 
Out  of  thy  part  already  !  foil'd  the  scene ! 
Disrank'd  the  lines  !  disarm'd  the  action  ! 

Ter.  Yes,  yes,  true  chastity  is  tongued  so  weak 
'Tis  overcome  ere  it  know  how  to  speak. 

Fath.  Come,  come,  thou  happy  close  of  every  wrong, 
'Tis  thou  that  canst  dissolve  the  hardest  doubt  ; 
'Tis  time  for  thee  to  speak,  we  all  are  out. 
Daughter  and  you  the  man  whom  I  call  son, 
1  must  confess  I  made  a  deed  of  gift 
To  heaver,  and  you,  and  gave  iiijr  child  to  both  ; 
When  on  my  blessing  I  did  charm  her  soul 
in  the  white  circle  of  true  chastity, 
Still  to  run  true  till  death  :  now,  sir,  if  not, 
She  forfeits  my  rich  blessing,  and  is  fined 
With  an  eternal  curse  ;  then  I  tell  you, 
She  shall  die  now,  now  whilst  her  soul  is  true. 

Ter.  Die  ! 


ENGLISH  DRAMATIC  POETS. 


Ccel.  Aye,  I  am  death's  echo. 

Fulh.   O  my  son  : 
I  am  lnr  father  ;   every  tear  I  shed 
Is  threescore  ten  years  old  ;  I  weep  and  smile 
Two  kinds  of  tears  ;  I  weep  that  she  must  die, 
I  smile  that  she  must  die  a  virgin  :  thus 
We  joyful  men  mock  tears,  and  tears  mock  us. 

Ter.  What  speaks  that  cup  ? 

Fath.  White  wine  and  poison. 

Ter.  Oh! 
That  very  name  of  poison  poisons  me. 
Thou  winter  of  a  man,  thou  walking  grave, 
Whose  life  is  like  a  dying  taper:  how 
Canst  thou  define  a  lover's  laboring  thoughts  ? 
What  scent  hast  thou  but  death  !  what  taste  but  earth  1 
The  breath  that  purls  from  thee  is  like  the  steam 
Of  a  new-open'd  vault :  I  know  thy  drift ; 
Because  thou  'rt  travelling  to  the  land  of  graves, 
Thou  covet'st  company,  and  hither  bring'st 
A  health  of  poison  to  pledge  death  :  a  poison 
For  this  sweet  spring ;  this  element  is  mine, 
This  is  the  air  I  breathe  ;   corrupt  it  not ; 
Tins  heaven  is  mine,  T  bought  it  with  my  soul 
Of  him  that  sells  a  heaven  to  buy  a  soul. 

Fath.  Well,  let  her  go ;   she's  thine,  thou  call'st  her  thine, 
Thy  element,  the  air  thou  breath'st ;  thou  know'st 
The  air  thou  breath'st  is  common  ;   make  her  so. 
Perhaps  thou  'It  say  none  but  the  King  shall  wear 
Thy  night-gown,  she  that  laps  thee  warm  with  love  ; 
And  that  Kings  are  not  common  :  then  to  show 
By  consequence  he  cannot  make  her  so. 
Indeed  she  may  promote  her  shame  and  thine, 
And  with  your  shames  speak  a  good  word  for  mine. 
The  King  shining  so  clear,  and  we  so  dim, 
Our  dark  disgraces  will  be  seen  through  him. 
Imagine  her  the  cup  of  thy  moist  lit'-. 
What  man  would  pledge  a  Kinrr  in  his  own  wife  ? 

Ter.  She  dies  :  that  sentence  poisons  her  :  O  life  ! 


SAT1R0-MAST1X.  03 


What  slave  would  pledge  a  King  in  his  own  Wife! 

Ctrl.    Welcome  0  poison,  physic  against  lust, 
Thou  wholesome  medicine  to  a  constant  blood  ; 
Thou  rare  apothecary  that  canst  keep 
My  chastity  preserved  within  this  box 
Of  tempting  dust,  this  painted  earthen  pot 
That  stands  upon  the  stall  of  the  white  soul, 
To  set  the  shop  out  like  a  flatterer, 
To  draw  the  customers  of  sin :  come,  come, 
Thou  art  no  poison,  but  a  diet  drink 
To  moderate  my  blood  :   White-innocent  Wine, 
Art  thou  made  guilty  of  my  death  ?  oh  no, 
For  thou  thyself  art  poison  ;  take  me  hence, 
For  Innocence  shall  murder  Innocence.  [Drinks. 

Ter.  Hold,  hold,  thou  shalt  not  die,  m)  bride,  my  wife, 
O  stop  that  speedy  messenger  of  death  ; 

0  let  him  not  run  down  that  narrow  path 
Which  leads  unto  thy  heart,  nor  carry  news 
To  thy  removing  soul  that  thou  must  die. 

Col.  'Tis  done  already,  the  Spiritual  Court 
Is  breaking  up,  all  Offices  discharg'd 
My  Soul  removes  from  this  weak  Standing-house 
Of  frail  mortality  :    Dear  father,  bless 
Me  now  and  ever :    Dearer  man,  farewell  ; 

1  jointly  take  my  leave  of  thee  and  life  ; 
Go  tell  the  King  thou  hast  a  constant  wife. 

Faih.  Smiles  on  my  cheeks  arise 
To  see  how  sweetly  a  true  virgin  dies. 

[The  beauty  and  force  of  this  scene  are  much  diminished  to  the  reader  of 
the  entire  play,  when  he  comes  to  find  that  this  solemn  preparation  is  but 
a  sham  contrivance  of  the  father's,  and  the  potion  which  Ccelestina  swal- 
lows nothing  more  than  a  sleeping  draught :  from  the  effects  of  which  she 
is  to  awake  in  due  time,  to  the  surprise  of  her  husband,  and  the  great  mirth 
and  edification  of  the  King  and  his  courtiers.  As  Hamlet  says,  they  do  but 
"  poison  in  ie<t  "  ■  >  sentiments  are  worthy  of  a  real  martyrdom,  and  an 
Appian  sacrifice  in  earnest.] 


G4  ENGLISH  DRAMATIC  POETS. 


THE  HONEST  WHORE.     A  COMEDY.     BY  THOMAS  DECKER 

Hospital  for  Lunatics. 
There  are  of  mad  men,  as  there  are  of  tame, 
All  humor'd  not  alike.     We  have  here  some 
So  apish  and  fantastic,  play  with  a  feather; 
And,  though  'twould  grieve  a  soul  to  see  God's  image 
So  blemish'd  and  defac'd,  yet  do  they  act 
Such  antick  and  such  pretty  lunacies, 
That,  spite  of  sorrow,  they  will  make  you  smile. 
Others  again  we  have,  like  hungry  lions, 
Fierce  as  wild  bulls,  untameable  as  flies. — 

Patience. 
Patience  !  why,  'tis  the  soul  of  peace  : 
Of  all  the  virtues,  'tis  nearest  kin  to  heaven  ; 
It  makes  men  look  like  gods. — The  best  of  men 
That  e'er  wore  earth  about  him  was  a  Sufferer, 
A  soft,  meek,  patient,  humble,  tranquil  spirit  ; 
The  first  true  gentleman  that  ever  breath'd. 


THE  SECOND  PART  OF  THE  HONEST  WHORE. 
BY  THOMAS  DECKER. 

Bellafront,  a  reclaimed  Harlot,  recounts  some  of  the  miseries  of  hei 

profession. 

Like  an  ill  husband,  though  I  knew  the  same 

To  be  my  undoing,  follow'd  I  that  game. 

Oh  when  the  work  of  lust  had  earn'd  my  bread, 

To  taste  it  how  I  trembled,  lest  each  bit 

Ere  it  went  down  should  choke  me  chewing  it. 

My  bed  seemed  like  a  cabin  hung  in  hell, 

The  bawd  hell's  porter,  and  the  liquorish  wine 

The  pandar  fetch'd  was  like  an  easy  fine 

For  which  m<  thought  I  leas'd  away  my  soul, 

And  oftentimes  even  in  my  quaffmg-bowl 

Thus  said  I  to  myself:  I  am  a  Whore, 


THE  H©NEST  WHORE.  6f< 


And  have  drunk  down  thus  much  confusion  more. 

. when  in  the  street 

A  fair  young  modest  damsel*  I  did  meet, 

She  seem'd  to  all  a  Dove,  when  I  pass'd  by, 

And  I  to  all  a  Raven  ;  every  eye 

That  follow'd  her,  went  with  a  bashful  glance  ; 

At  me  each  bold  and  jeering  countenance 

Darted  forth  scorn  :  to  her  as  if  she  had  been 

Some  Tower  unvanquished  would  they  vail  ; 

'Gainst  me  swoln  rumor  hoisted  every  sail ; 

She  crown'd  with  reverend  praises  pass'd  by  them, 

I  though  with  face  mask'd  could  not  'scape  the  Hem ; 

For,  as  if  heaven  had  set  strange  marks  on  whores, 

Because  they  should  be  pointing  stocks  to  man, 

Drest  up  in  civilest  shape  a  Courtezan  ; 

Let  her  walk  saint-like  noteless  and  unknown, 

Yet  she's  betray 'd  by  some  trick  of  her  own. 

The  happy  Man. 

He  that  makes  gold  his  wife,  but  not  his  whore, 
He  that  at  noon  day  walks  by  a  prison  door, 
He  that  in  the  sun  is  neither  beam  nor  moat, 

*  This  simple  picture  of  Honor  and  Shame,  contrasted  without  violence, 
and  expressed  without  immodesty,  is  worth  all  the  strong  lines  against  the 
Harlot's  Profession,  with  which  both  Parts  of  this  play  are  offensively 
crowded.  A  Satirist  is  always  to  be  suspected,  who,  to  make  vice  odious, 
dwells  upon  all  its  acts  and  minutest  circumstances  with  a  sort  of  relish  and 
retrospective  gust.  But  so  near  are  the  boundaries  of  panegyric  and  invec- 
tive, that  a  worn-out  Sinner  is  sometimes  found  to  make  the  best  Declaimer 
against  Sin.  The  same  high-seasoned  descriptions  which  in  his  unre 
rate  state  served  to  inflame  his  appetites,  in  his  new  province  of  a  Moralist 
will  serve  him  (a  little  turned)  to  expose  the  enormity  of  those  appetites  in 
other  men.  No  one  will  doubt,  who  reads  Marston's  Satires,  that  the 
author  in  some  part  of  his  life  must  have  been  something  more  than  a  theo- 
rist in  vice.  Have  we  never  heard  an  old  preacher  in  the  pulpit  display 
such  an  insight  into  the  mystery  of  ungodliness,  as  made  us  wonder  with 
reason  how  a  good  man  came  by  it  ?  When  Cervantes  with  such  profi- 
ciency of  fondness  dwells  upon  the  Don's  library,  who  sees  not  that  hi 
been  a  great  reader  of  books  of  Kuight-Errantrj  ?  perhapswas  at  some  time 
of  his  life  in  danger  of  falling  into  those  very  extravagances  which  he  ridi- 
cules so  happily  in  his  II 

PART   I.  6 


00  ENGLISH  DRAMATIC  POETS. 


He  that's  not  mad  after  a  petticoat, 

He  for  whom  poor  men's  curses  dig  no  grave, 

He  that  is  neither  Lord's  nor  Lawyer's  slave, 

He  that  makes  This  his  sea  and  That  his  shore, 

He  that  in  's  coflin  is  richer  than  he  fore, 

He  that  counts  Youth  his  sword  and  Age  his  staff, 

He  whose  right  hand  carves  his  own  epitaph, 

He  that  upon  his  death-hed  is  a  Swan, 

And  dead,  no  Crow  ;  he  is  a  Happy  Man.* 


WESTWARD   HOE.     A  COMEDY.     BY  THOMAS   DECKER  AND 

JOHN  WEBSTER 

Pleasure,  the  general  pursuit. 

Sweet  Pleasure  ! 

Delicious  Pleasure  !  earth's  supremest  good, 
The  spring  of  blood,  though  it  dry  up  our  blood. 
Rob  me  of  that  (though  to  be  drunk  with  pleasure, 
As  rank  excess  even  in  best  things  is  bad, 
Turjis  man  into  a  beast)  yet,  that  being  gone, 
A  horse,  and  this  (the  goodliest  shape)  all  one. 
We  feed  ;  wear  rich  attires  ;  and  strive  to  cleave 
The  stars  with  marble  towers  ;  fight  battles  ;  spend 
Our  blood,  to  buy  us  names ;  and  in  iron  hold 
Will  we  eat  roots  to  imprison  fugitive  gold  : 
But  to  do  thus  what  sp  11  can  us  excite  ? 
This  ;  the  strong  magic  of  our  appetite  : 
To  feast  which  richly,  life  itself  undoes. 
Who  'd  not  die  thus  ? 

Why  even  those  that  starve  in  voluntary  wants, 
And,  to  advance  the  mind,  keep  the  flesh  poor, 
The  world  enjoying  them,  they  not  the  world  ; 
Would  they  do  this,  but  that  they  are  proud  to  suck 
A  sweetness. from  such  sourness  ? 

*  The  turn  of  this  is  the  same  with  lago's  definition  of  a  Deserving  Woman 
"  She  that  was  ever  fair  and  never  proud,"  &c.     The  matter  is  superior. 


LINGUA.  67 


Music 

Let  music 
Charm  with  her  excellent  voice  an  awful  silence 
Through  all  this  building,  that  her  sphery  soul 
May  (on  the  wings  of  air)  in  thousand  forms 
Invisibly  fly,  yet  be  enjoy'd. 


LINGUA;  A  COMEDY.     BY  ANTHONY  BREWER. 
Languages. 

The  ancient  Hebrew,  clad  vith  mysteries ; 

The  learned  Greek,  rich  in  fit  epithets, 

Blest  in  the  lovely  marriage  of  pure  words  ; 

The  Chaldee  wise,  the  Arabian  physical, 

The  Roman  eloquent,  and  Tuscan  grave, 

The  braving  Spanish,  and  the  smooth-tongued  French — 

Tragedy  and  Comedy. 

— fellows  both,  both  twins,  but  so  unlike 

As  birth  to  death,  wedding  to  funeral : 

For  this  that  rears  himself  in  buskins  quaint, 

Is  pleasant  at  the  first,  proud  in  the  midst, 

Stately  in  all,  and  bitter  death  at  end. 

That  in  the  pumps  doth  frown  at  first  acquaintance, 

Trouble  the  midst,  but  in  the  end  concludes 

Closing  up  all  with  a  sweet  catastrophe. 

This  grave  and  sad,  distained  with  brinish  tears  : 

That  light  and  quick,  with  wrinkled  laughter  painted  : 

This  deals  with  nobles,  kings,  and  emperors, 

Full  of  great  fears,  great  hopes,  great  enterprizes  ; 

This  other  trades  with  men  of  mean  condition, 

His  projects  small,  small  hopes,  and  dangers  little  : 

This  gorgeous,  broider'd  with  rich  sentences  : 

That  fair,  and  purfled  round  with  merriments. 

Both  vice  detect,  and  virtue  beautify, 

By  being  death's  mirror,  and  life's  looking-glass. 


GS  ENGLISH  DRAMATIC  POETS. 

THE   HISTORY   OF    ANTONIO   AND    MELLIDA.     THE    FIRST 
PART.     BY  JOHN  MARSTON. 

Jlndrugio,  Duke  of  Genoa,  banished  his  country,  with  the  loss  of  a  son, 
supposed  drowned,  is  cast  upon  the  territory  of  his  mortal  enemy  the 
Duke  of  Venice  with  no  attendants  but  Lucio,  an  old  nobleman,  and  a 
Page. 

Andr.  Is  not  yon  gleam  the  shudd'ring  Morn  that  flakes 
With  silver  tincture  the  east  verge  of  heaven  ? 

Luc.  I  think  it  is,  so  please  your  Excellence. 

Andr.  Away,  I  have  no  Excellence  to  please. 
Prithee  observe  the  custom  of  the  world  ; 
That  only  flatters  greatness,  states  exalts. 
And  please  my  Excellence  !  O  Lucio, 
Thou  hast  been  ever  held  respected,  dear, 
Even  precious  to  Andrugio's  inmost  love  : 
Good,  flatter  not. 

My  thoughts  are  fixt  in  contemplation 
Why  this  huge  earth,  this  monstrous  animal 
That  eats  her  children,  should  not  have  eyes  and  ears. 
philosophy  maintains  that  Nature's  wise, 
And  forms  no  useless  nor  unperfect  thing. 
Did*  Nature  make  the  earth,  or  the  earth  Nature  ? 
For  earthly  dirt  makes  all  things,  makes  the  man, 
Moulds  me  up  honor,  and,  like  a  cunning  Dutchman, 
Paints  me  a  puppet  even  with  seeming  breath,  % 

And  gives  a  sot  appearance  of  a  soul. 
Go  to,  go  to ;  thou  ly'st,  Philosophy. 
Nature  forms  things  unperfect,  useless,  vain. 
Why  made  she  not  the  earth  with  eyes  and  ears  ? 
That  she  might  see  desert  and  hear  men's  plaints  ; 
That  when  a  soul  is  splitted,  sunk  with  grief, 
He  might  fall  thus  upon  the  breast  of  Earth, 
And  in  her  ear  halloo  his  misery, 
Exclaiming  thus  :  O  thou  all  bearing  Earth, 
Which  men  do  gape  for  till  thou  cramm'st  their  mouths 
And  choak'st  their  throats  with  dust :  open  thy  breast, 
And  let  me  sink  into  thee  :  look  who  knocks  ; 
Andrumo  calls.     Rut  O  she's  deaf  and  blind. 


•&* 


ANTONIO  AND  MELLIDA.  69 


A  wretch  but  lean  relief  on  earth  can  find. 

Luc.  Sweet  Lord,  abandon  passion  ;  and  disarm. 
Since  by  the  fortune  of  the  tumbling  sea 
We  are  roll'd  up  upon  the  Venice  marsh, 
Let's  clip  all  fortune,  lest  more  low'ring  fate — 

Andr.  More  low'ring  fate  !  O  Lucio,  choke  that  breath. 
Xow  I  defy  chance.     Fortune's  brow  hath  frown'd, 
Even  to  the  utmost  wrinkle  it  can  bend  : 
Her  venom's  spit.     Alas  !  what  country  rests, 
What  son,  what  comfort,  that  she  can  deprive  ? 
Triumphs  not  Venice  in  my  overthrow  ? 
Gapes  not  my  native  country  for  my  blood  ? 
Lies  not  my  son  tomb'd  in  the  swelling  main? 
And  in  more  low'ring  fate  ?  There's  nothing  left 
Unto  Andrugio  but  Andrugio  : 
And  that 

Nor  mischief,  force,  distress,  nor  hell  can  take  : 
Fortune  my  fortunes  not  my  mind  shall  shake. 

Luc.  Speak  like  yourself:  but  give  me  leave,  my  Lord, 
To  wish  you  safety.     If  you  are  but  seen, 
Your  arms  display  you  ;  therefore  put  them  off, 
And  take 

A  ndr.   Would'st  have  me  go  unarm'd  among  my  foes  ? 
Being  besieg'd  by  Passion,  entering  lists 
To  combat  with  Despair  and  mighty  Grief: 
My  soul  beleaguer'd  with  the  crushing  strength 
Of  sharp  Impatience.     Ha,  Lucio;  go  unarm'd? 
Come,  soul,  resume  the  valor  of  thy  birth  ; 
Mvself  myself  will  dare  all  opposites  : 
I'll  muster  forces,  an  unvanquish'd  power: 
Cornets  of  horse  shall  press  th'  ungrateful  earth  : 
This  hollow-wombed  mass  shall  inly  groan 
And  murmur  to  sustain  the  weight  of  arms  : 
Ghastly  Amazement,  with  upstarted  hair, 
Shall  hurry  on  before,  and  usher  us. 
Whilst  trumpets  clamor  with  a  sound  of  death. 

Luc.  Peace,  good  my  lord,  your  speech  is  all  too  light. 
Alas,  survey  your  fortunes,  look  what's  left 


70  ENGLISH  DRAMATIC  POETS. 

Of  all  your  forces  and  your  utmost  hopes ; 
A  weak  old  man,  a  page,  and  your  poor  self. 

Andr.  Andrugio  lives  ;  and  a  Fair  Cause  of  Arms, 
Why,  that's  an  army  all  invincible. 
He  who  hath  that,  hath  a  battalion  royal, 
Armor  of  proof,  huge  troops  of  barbed  steeds, 
Main  squares  of  pikes,  millions  of  harquebush. 
O,  a  Fair  Cause  stands  firm,  and  will  abide ; 
Legions  of  Angels  fight  upon  her  side. 

[The  situation  of  Andrugio  and  Lucio  resembles  that  of  Lear  and  Kent, 
ia  that  King's  distresses.  Andrugio,  like  Lear,  manifests  a  kind  of  royal 
impatience,  a  turbulent  greatness,  an  affected  resignation.  The  Enemies 
which  he  enters  lists  to  combat,  "  Despair  and  mighty  Grief,  and  sharp 
Impatience,"  and  the  Forces  ("  Cornets  of  Horse,"  &c.)  which  he  brings  to 
vanquish  them,  are  in  the  boldest  style  of  Allegory.  They  are  such  a 
"race  of  mourners"  as  "the  infection  of  sorrows  loud"  in  the  intellect 
might  beget  on  "  some  pregnant  cloud  "  in  the  imagination.] 


ANTONIO'S  REVENGE.     THE  SECOND  PART  OF  THE  HISTORY 
OF  ANTONIO  AND  MELLIDA.     BY  JOHN  MARSTON. 

The  Prologue.* 

The  rawish  dank  of  clumsy  winter  ramps 
The  fluent  summer's  vein ;  and  drizzling  sleet 
Chilleth  the  wan  bleak  cheek  of  the  numb'd  earth, 
While  snarling  gusts  nibble  the  juiceless  leaves 
From  the  nak'd  shudd'ring  branch,  and  pillsf  the  skin 
From  off"  the  soft  and  delicate  aspects. 
0  now  methinks  a  sullen  tragic  scene 

*  This  prologue  for  its  passionate  earnestness,  and  for  the  tragic  note  of 
preparation  whi  ;h  it  sounds,  might  have  preceded  one  of  those  old  tales  of 
Thebes,  or  Pelops'  line,  which  Milton  has  so  highly  commended,  as  free 
from  the  common  error  of  the  poets  in  his  days,  "  of  intermixing  comic 
stuff  with  tragic  sadness  and  gravity,  brought  in  without  discretion  corruptly 
to  gratify  the  people."  It  is  as  solemn  a  preparative  as  the  "  warning 
voice  which  he  who  saw  th'  Apocalypse,  heard  cry." 

t  Peels. 


ANTONIO'S   REVENGE.  71 

Would  suit  the  time  with  pleasing  congruence. 

May  we  be  happy  in  our  weak  devoir. 

And  all  part  pleas'd  in  most  wish'd  content. 

But  sweat  of  Hercules  can  ne'er  beget 

So  blest  an  issue.     Therefore  we  proclaim, 

If  any  spirit  breathes  withit   this  round 

Uncapable  of  weighty  passion 

(As  from  his  birth  being  hugged  in  the  arms, 

And  nuzled  'twixt  the  breasts  of  Happiness*), 

Who  winks  and  shuts  his  apprehension  up 

From  common  sense  of  what  men  were,  and  are ; 

Who  would  not  know  what  men  must  be  :  let  such 

Hurry  amain  from  our  black  visag'd  shows ; 

We  shall  affright  their  eyes.     But  if  a  breast, 

Nail'd  to  the  earth  with  grief;  if  any  heart, 

Pierc'd  through  with  anguish,  pant  within  this  ring ; 

If  there  be  any  blood,  whose  heat  is  choak'd 

And  stifled  with  true  sense  of  misery  : 

If  aught  of  these  strains  fill  this  consort  up, 

They  arrive  most  welcome.     O  that  our  power 

Could  lacky  or  keep  wing  with  our  desires ; 

That  with  unused  poize  of  stile  and  sense 

We  might  weigh  massy  in  judicious  scale  ! 

Yet  here's  the  prop  that  doth  support  our  hopes  : 

When  our  scenes  falter,  or  invention  halts, 

Your  favor  will  give  crutches  to  our  faults. 

Antonio,  son  to  Andrugio  Duke  of  Genoa,  whom  Piero  the  Venetian 
Prince  and  father-in-law  to  Antonio  has  cruelly  murdered,  hills  Piero's 
little  son,  Julio,  as  a  sacrifice  to  the  ghost  of  Andrugio. —  The  scene,  a 
church-yard :  the  time,  midnight. 

Julio.     Antonio. 
Jul.  Brother  Antonio,  are  you  here  i'faith  ? 
Why  do  you  frown  ?     Indeed  my  sister  said, 
That  I  should  call  you  brother,  that  she  did, 
When  you  were  married  to  her.     Buss  me :  good  truth, 
I  love  you  better  than  my  father,  'deed. 

•  "  Sleek  favorifes  of  Fortune."     Preface  to  Poems  by  S.  T.  Coleridge. 


72  ENGLISH   DRAMATIC  POETS. 


Ant.  Thy  father?  gracious,  0  bounteous  heaven, 

I  do  adore  thy*  justice.      Vcnit  in  nostras  /nanus 
Tandem  r  indicia,  re  nit  et  tota  quidem. 

Jul.  Truth,  since  my  mother  died,  I  loved  you  best. 
Something  hath  anger'd  you :  pray  you,  look  merrily. 

Ant.  I  will  laugh,  and  dimple  my  thin  cheek 
With  capering  joy  ;  chuck,  my  heart  doth  leap 
To  grasp  thy  bosom.     Time,  place,  and  blood, 
Uow  fit  you  close  together  !  heaven's  tones 
Strike  not  such  music  to  immortal  souls, 
As  your  accordance  sweets  my  breast  withal. 
Methinks  I  pace  upon  the  front  of  Jove, 
And  kick  corruption  with  a  scornful  heel, 
Griping  this  flesh,  disdain  mortality. 

0  that  I  knew  which  joint,  which  side,  which  limb 
Were  father  all,  and  had  no  mother  in  it ; 

That  I  might  rip  it  vein  by  vein,  and  carve  revenge 
In  bleeding  traces :  but  since  'tis  mix'd  together, 
Have  at  adventure,  pell-mell,  no  reverse. 
Come  hither,  boy  ;  this  is  Andrugio's  hearse. 

Jul.  O  God,  you'll  hurt  me.     For  my  sister's  sake, 
Pray  you  don't  hurt  me.     And  you  kill  me,  'deed 
I'll  tell  my  father. 

Ant.  Oh,  for  thy  sister's  sake  I  flag  revenge. 

Andrugio's  Ghost  cries  "  Revenge.' 

Ant.  Stay,  stay,  dear  father,  fright  mine  eyes  no  more. 
Revenge  as  swift  as  lightning,  bursteth  forth 
And  clears  his  heart.     Come,  pretty  tender  child, 
It  is  not  thee  I  hate,  or  thee  I  kill 
Thy  father's  blood  that  flows  within  thy  veins, 
Is  it  I  lothe  ;  is  that,  revenge  must  suck. 

1  love  thy  soul :  and  were  thy  heart  lapt  up 
In  any  flesh  but  in  Piero's  blood, 

I  would  thus  kiss  it :  but,  being  his,  thus,  thus, 

And  thus  I'll  punch  it.      Abandon  fears : 

Whilst  thy  wounds  bleed,  my  brows  shall  gush  out  tears. 

Jul.  So  you  will  love  me,  do  even  what  you  will.        [Dies. 

Ant.  Now  barks  the  wolf  against  the  full-cheekt  moon ; 


ANTONIO'S  REVENGE.  73 


Now  lions'  half  clam'd  entrails  roar  for  food  ; 

Now  croaks  the  toad,  and  night-crows  screech  aloud, 

Fluttering  'bout  casements  of  departing  souls ! 

Now  gape  the  graves,  and  through  their  yawns  let  loose 

Imprison 'd  spirits  to  revisit  earth  : 

And  now,  swart  Night,  to  swell  thy  hour  out 

Behold  I  spurt  warm  blood  in  thy  black  eyes. 

{From  under  the  earth  a  groan.) 
Howl  not,  thou  putry  mould  ;  groan  not,  ye  graves  ; 
Be  dumb,  all  breath.     Here  stands  Andrugio's  son, 
Worthy  his  father.     So  ;   I  feel  no  breath  ; 
His  jaws  are  fall'n,  his  dislodged  soul  is  fled. 
And  now  there's  nothing  but  Piero  left. 
He  is  all  Piero,  father  all.     This  blood, 
This  breast,  this  heart,  Piero  all  : 
Whom  thus  I  mangle  Spright  of  Julio, 
Forget  this  was  thy  trunk.     I  live  thy  friend. 
Mavst  thou  be  twined  with  the  soft'st  embrace 
Of  clear  eternity  ;*  but  thy  father's  blood 

I  thus  make  incense  of  to  Vengeance.  * 

******* 

Day  breaking. 

see,  the  dapple  grey  coursers  of  the  morn 

Beat  up  the  light  with  their  bright  silver  hoofs 
And  chase  it  through  the  sky. 

One  who  died,  slandered. 
Look  on  those  lips, 
Those  now  lawn  pillows,  on  whose  tender  softness 
Chaste  modest  Speech,  stealing  from  out  his  breast, 
Had  wont  to  rest  itself,  as  loth  to  post 
From  out  so  fair  an  Inn :  look,  look,  they  seem 
To  stir, 
And  breathe  defiance  to  black  obloquy. 

Wherein  fools  are  happy. 
Even  in  that,  note  a  fool's  beatitude  ; 

*  "  To  lie   immortal  in  the  arms  of  Fire."     Browne's  Religio  Medici. 
Of  the  punishment?  in  hel!. 


74  ENGLISH   DRAMATIC  POETS. 


He  is  not  capable  of  passion ; 
Wanting  the  power  of  distinction, 
He  bears  an  unturn'd  sail  with  every  wind : 
Blow  east,  blow  west,  he  steers  his  course  alike. 
I  never  saw  a  fool  lean :  the  chub-faced  fop 
Shines  sleek  with  full  cram'd  fat  of  happiness : 
Whilst  studious  contemplation  sucks  the  juice 
From  wisard's*  cheeks,  who  making  curious  search 
For  nature's  secrets,  the  First  Innating  Cause 
Laughs  them  to  scorn,  as  man  doth  busy  Apes 
When  they  will  zany  men. 

Maria   {the   Duchess  of   Genoa)   describes   the    death   of  Mellida,   her 

daugh  ter-in-Iaw . 

Being  laid  upon  her  bed  she  grasp'd  my  hand, 

And  kissing  it,  spake  thus,  Thou  very  poor, 

Why  dost  not  weep  ?  the  jewel  of  thy  brow, 

The  rich  adornment  that  inchas'd  thy  breast, 

Is  lost ;  thy  son,  my  love,  is  lost,  is  dead. 

And  have  1  liv'd  to  see  his  virtues  blurr'd 

With  guiltless  blots  ?     O  world,  thou  art  too  subtil 

For  honest  natures  to  converse  withal  : 

Therefore  I'll  leave  thee  :  farewell,  mart  of  wo  ; 

I  fly  to  clip  my  love  Antonio, — 

With  that,  her  head  sunk  down  upon  her  breast ; 

Her  cheek  chang'd  earth,  her  senses  slept  in  rest : 

Until  my  Fool,f  that  crept  unto  the  bed, 

Screech'd  out  so  loud  that  he  brought  back  her  soul, 

Call'd  her  again,  that  her  bright  eyes  'gan  ope 

And  stared  upon  him  :  he  audacious  fool 

Dared  kiss  her  hand,  wisht  her  soft  rest,  lov'd  Bride  ; 

She  fumbled  out,  thanks,  good  :  and  so  she  died. 

*  Wise  men's. 

t  Antonio,  who  is  thought  dead,  but  still  lives  in  that  disguise. 


THE  MALCONTENT.  75 


THE  MALCONTENT.     A  TRAGI-COMEDY.     BY  JOHN  MARSTON. 

The  Malcontent  describes  himself. 
I  cannot  sleep,  my  eyes'  ill  neighboring  lids 
Will  hold  no  fellowship.     O  thou  pale  sober  night, 
Thou  that  in  sluggish  fumes  all  sense  dost  steep  ; 
Thou  that  giv'st  all  the  world  full  leave  to  play, 
Unbend'st  the  feebled  veins  of  sweaty  labor: 
The  gaily-slave,  that  all  the  toilsome  day 
Tugs  at  the  oar  against  the  stubborn  wave, 
Straining  his  rugged  veins,  snores  fast ; 
The  stooping  scythe-man,  that  doth  barb  the  field, 
Thou  mak'st  wink  sure  ;  in  night  all  creatures  sleep, 
Only  the  Malcontent,  that  'gainst  his  fate 
Repines  and  quarrels  :  alas  lie's  Goodman  Tell-clock  ; 
[lis  sallow  jaw-bones  sink  with  wasting  moan  ; 
Whilst  others'  beds  are  down,  his  pillow's  stone. 

Place  for  a  Penitent. 
My  cell  'tis,  lady  ;  where,  instead  of  masks, 
Music,  tilts,  tournies,  and  such  court-like  shows, 
The  hollow  murmur  of  the  checkless  winds 
Shall  groan  again,  whilst  the  unquiet  sea 
Shakes  the  whole  rock  with  foamy  battery. 
There  Usherless*  the  air  come  in  and  out ; 
The  rheumy  vault  will  force  your  eyes  to  weep, 
Whilst  you  behold  true  desolation. 
A  rocky  barrenness  shall  pierce  your  eyes ; 
Where  a'!  at  once  one  reaches,  where  he  stands, 
With  brows  tl.e  roof,  both  walls  with  both  his  hands. 

*  i.  e.  without  the  ceremony  of  an  Usher  to  give  notice  of  its  approach, 
as  is  usual  in  Courts.  As  fine  as  Shakspeare  ■  "  the  bleak  air  thy  boister- 
ous Chamberlain." 


78  ENGLISH  DRAMATIC  POETS. 


THE  WONDER  OF  WOMEN  :  OR  THE  TRAGEDY  OF 
SOPHONISBA.     BY  JOHN  MARSTON. 

Description  of  the  Witch  Erictho. 

Here  in  this  desart,  the  great  Soul  of  Charms 

Dreadful  Erictho  lives ;  whose  dismal  brow 

Contemns  all  roofs,  or  civil  coverture. 

Forsaken  graves  and  tombs  (the  ghosts  forc'd  out) 

She  joys  to  inhabit. 

A  loathsome  yellow  leanness  spreads  her  face, 

A  heavy  hell-like  paleness  loads  her  cheeks, 

Unknown  to  a  clear  heaven.     But  if  dark  winds 

Or  black  thick  clouds  drive  back  the  blinded  stars, 

When  her  deep  magic  makes  forc'd  heaven  quake, 

And  thunder,  spite  of  Jove  :  Erictho  then 

From  naked  graves  stalks  out,  heaves  proud  her  head, 

With  long  unkemb'd  hair  loaden,  and  strives  to  snatch 

The  night's  quick  sulphur  ;  then  she  bursts  up  tombs 

From  half-rot  sear-cloths  ;  and  she  scrapes  dry  gums 

For  her  black  rites  :  but  when  she  finds  a  corse 

But  newly  grav'd,  whose  entrails  are  not  turn'd 

To  slimy  filth,  with  greedy  havoc  then 

She  makes  fierce  spoil,  and  swells  with  wicked  triumph 

To  bury  her  lean  knuckles  in  his  eyes : 

Then  doth  she  gnaw  the  pale  and  o'er-grown  nails 

From  his  dry  hand  :  but  if  she  find  some  life 

Yet  lurking  close,  she  bites  his  gelid  lips, 

And  sticking  her  black  tongue  in  his  dry  throat, 

She  breathes  dire  murmurs,  which  enforce  him  bear 

Her  baneful  secrets  to  the  spirits  of  horror. 

Her  Cave. 
Hard  by  the  reverent  ruins 


Of  a  once  glorious  temple,  rear'd  to  Jove, 

Whose  very  rubbish  (like  the  pitied  fall 

Of  virtue  much  unfortunate)  yet  bears 

A  deathless  majesty,  though  now  quite  ras'd, 

Hurl'd  down  by  wrath  and  lust  of  impious  kings, 


WHAT  YOU  WILL.  77 


So  that,  where  holy  Flamens  wont  to  sing 
Sweet  hymns  to  heaven,  there  the  daw,  and  crow, 
The  ill-voic'd  raven,  and  still  chattering  pye, 
Send  out  ungrateful  sounds  and  loathsome  filth  ; 
Where  statues  and  Jove's  acts  were  vively*  limn'd, 
Boys  with  black  coals  draw  the  veil'd  parts  of  nature 
And  lecherous  actions  of  imagined  lust ; 
Where  tombs  and  beauteous  urns  of  well-dead  men 
Stood  in  assured  rest,  the  shepherd  now 
Unloads  his  belly,  corruption  most  abhorr'd 
Mingling  itself  with  their  renowned  ashes  : 
There  once  a  charnel-house,  now  a  vast  cave, 
Over  whose  brow  a  pale  and  untrod  grove 
Throws  out  her  heavy  shade,  the  mouth  thick  arms 
Of  darksome  ewe,  sun-proof,  for  ever  choak  ; 
Within,  rests  barren  darkness,  fruitless  drought 
Pines  in  eternal  night ;  the  steam  of  hell 
Yields^not  so  lazy  air  :   there,  that's  her  Cell. 


WHAT  YOU  WILL :   A  COMEDY.     BY  JOHN  MARSTON. 

Venetian  Merchant. 

No  knight, 
But  one  (that  title  off)  was  even  a  prince, 
A  sultan  Solyman  :  thrice  was  he  made, 
In  dangerous  arms,  Venice'  Providetore. 
He  was  merchant,  but  so  bounteous, 
Valiant,  wise,  learned,  all  so  absolute, 
That  nought  was  valued  praiseful  excellent, 
But  in  't  was  he  most  praiseful  excellent. 
O  I  shall  ne'er  forget  how  he  went  cloathed. 
He  would  maintain  it  a  base  ill-used  fashion, 
To  bind  a  merchant  to  the  sullen  habit 
Of  precise  black,  chiefly  in  Venice  state, 
Where  merchants  guilt  the  top.j" 

*  Livelily.  f  "  Her  whose  merchant  Sons  were  Kings."—  Collins 


78  ENGLISH  DRAMATIC  POETS. 


And  therefore  should  you  have  him  pass  the  bridge 

Up  the  Rialto  like  a  Soldier  ; 

In  a  black  bever  belt,  ash  color  plain, 

A  Florentine  cloth-o'-silver  jerkin,  sleeves 

White  satin  cut  on  tinsel,  then  long  stock ; 

French  panes  embroider'd,  goldsmith's  work :  O  God, 

Methinks  I  see  him,  how  he  would  walk, 

With  what  a  jolly  presence  he  would  pace 

Round  the  Rialto.* 

Scholar  and  his  Dog. 
I  was  a  scholar  :  seven  useful  springs 
Did  I  deflower  in  quotations 
Of  cross'd  opinions  'bout  the  soul  of  man  ; 
The  more  I  learnt,  the  more  I  learn  to  doubt. 
Delight  my  spaniel  slept,  whilst  I  baus'd  leaves, 
Toss'd  o'er  the  dunces,  pored  on  the  old  print 
Of  titled  words  :  and  still  my  spaniel  slept. 
Whilst  I  wasted  lamp-oil,  baited  my  flesh,  • 

Shrunk  up  my  veins  :  and  still  my  spaniel  slept. 
And  still  I  held  converse  with  Zabarell, 
Aquinas,  Scotus,  and  the  musty  saw 
Of  Antick  Donate  :  still  my  spaniel  slept. 
Still  on  went  I  ;  first,  an  sit  anima  ; 
Then,  an  it  were  mortal.     O  hold,  hold  ;  at  that 
They  're  at  brain  buffets,  fell  by  the  ears  amain 
Pell-mell  together  ;  still  my  spaniel  slept. 

*  To  judge  of  the  liberality  of  these  notions  of  dress,  we  must  advert  to 
the  days  of  Gresham,  and  the  consternation  which  a  Phenomenon  habited 
like  the  Merchant  here  described  would  have  excited  among  the  flat  round 
caps,  and  cloth  stockings,  upon  Change,  when  those  "  original  arguments  or 
tokens  of  a  Citizen's  vocation  were  in  fashion  not  more  for  thrift  and  use- 
fulness than  for  distinction  and  grace."  The  blank  uniformity  to  which  all 
professional  distinctions  in  apparel  have  been  long  hastening,  is  one  instance 
of  the  Decay  of  Symbols  among  us,  which,  whether  it  has  contributed  or 
not  to  make  us  a  more  intellectual,  has  certainly  made  us  a  less  imaginative 
people.  Shakspeare  knew  the  force  of  signs : — "  a  malignant  and  turban'd 
Turk."  "  This  meal-cap  Miller,"  says  the  Author  of  God's  Revenge 
against  Murder,  to  express  his  indignation  at  an  atrocious  outrage  committed 
by  the  miller  Pierot  upon  the  person  of  the  fair  Marieta. 


THE  INSATIATE  COUNTESS.  7y 

Then,  whether  'twere  corporeal,  local,  fixt, 

Ex  traduce,  but  whether  't  had  free  will 

Or  no,  hot  philosophers 

Stood  banding  factions,  all  so  strongly  propt, 

1  stagger'd,  knew  not  which  was  firmer  part, 

But  thought,  quoted,  read,  observ'd  and  pryed, 

Stuftt  noting-books  :  and  still  my  spaniel  slept. 

At  length  he  wak'd,  and  yawned  ;  and  by  yon  sky, 

For  aught  I  know  he  knew  as  much  as  I. 

Preparations  for  Second  Nuptials. 
Now  is  Albano's*  marriage-bed  new  hung 
With  fresh  rich  curtains,  now  are  my  valence  up, 
Imbost  with  orient  pearl,  my  grandsire's  gift, 
Now  are  the  lawn  sheets  fum'd  with  violets 
To  fresh  the  pall'd  lascivious  appetite, 
Now  work  the  cooks,  the  pastry  sweats  with  slaves, 
The  march-panes  glitter,  now,  now  the  musicians 
Hover  with  nimble  sticks  o'er  squeaking  crowds,f 
Tickling  the  dried  guts  of  a  mewing  cat : 
The  tailors,  starchers,  semsters,  butchers,  poulterers, 
Mercers,  all,  all none  think  on  me. 


THE  INSATIATE  COUNTESS :  A  TRAGEDY. 
BY  JOHN  MARSTON. 

Isabella  {the  Countess),  after  a  long  series  of  crimes  of  infidelity  to  her 
husband  and  of  murder,  is  brought  to  suffer  on  a  scaffold.  Roberto,  her 
husband,  arrives  to  take  a  last  leave  of  her. 

Roberto.  Bear  record  all  you  blessed  saints  in  heaven 
I  come  not  to  torment  thee  in  thy  death  ; 
For  of  himself  he  's  terrible  enough, 
But  call  to  mind  a  Lady  like  yourself, 
And  think  how  ill  in  such  a  beauteous  soul, 
Upon  the  instant  morrow  of  her  nuptials, 

*  Albano,  the  first  husband  speaks* ;  supposed  dead.  j-  Fiddles. 


80  ENGLISH  DRAMATIC  POETS 


Apostacy  and  wild  revolt  would  show. 

Withal,  imagine  that  she  had  a  lord 

Jealous,  the  air  should  ravish  her  chaste  looks ; 

Doting,  like  the  Creator  in  his  models, 

Who  views  them  every  minute,  and  with  care 

Mixt  in  his  fear  of  their  obedience  to  him. 

Suppose  he  sung  through  famous  Italy, 

More  common  than  the  looser  songs  of  Petrarch, 

To  every  several  Zany's  instrument : 

And  he  poor  wretch,  hoping  some  better  fate 

Might  call  her  back  from  her  adulterate  purpose, 

Lives  in  obscure  and  almost  unknown  life  ; 

Till  hearing  that  she  is  condemned  to  die, 

For  he  once  lov'd  her,  lends  his  pined  corpse 

Motion  to  bring  him  to  her  stage  of  honor, 

Where,  drown'd  in  wo  at  her  so  dismal  chance, 

He  clasps  her  :  thus  he  falls  into  a  trance. 

Isabella.  O  my  offended  lord,  lift  up  your  eyes  ; 
But  yet  avert  them  from  my  lothed  sight. 
Had  I  with  you  enjoyed  the  lawful  pleasure, 
To  which  belongs  nor  fear  nor  public  shame, 
I  might  have  lived  in  honor,  died  in  fame. 

9  • 

Your  pardon  on  my  faltering  knees  I  beg ; 
Which  shall  confirm  more  peace  unto  my  death, 
Than  all  the  grave  instructions  of  the  Church. 

Roberto.  Freely  thou  hast  it.     Farewell,  my  Isabella  ; 
Let  thy  death  ransome  thy  soul,  O  die  a  rare,  example, 
The  kiss  thou  gav'st  me  in  the  church,  here  take : 
As  I  leave  thee,  so  thou  the  world  forsake.  [Exit. 

Executioner.  Madam,  tie  up  your  hair. 

Isabella.  O  these  golden  nets, 
That  have  insnared  so  many  wanton  youths ! 
Not  one  but  has  been  held  a  thread  of  life, 
And  superstitiously  depended  on. 
What  else  ? 

Executioner.   Madam,  I  must  intreat  you  blind  your  eyes. 

Isabella.  I  have  lived  too  long  in  darkness,  my  friend  ; 
And  yet  mine  eyes  with  their  majestic  light, 


C.ESAR  AND  POMPEY.  SI 


Have  got  new  Muses  in  a  Poet's  spright. 
They've  been  more  gaz'd  at  than  the  God  of  day  ; 
Their  brightness  never  could  be  flattered  ; 
Yet  thou  command'st  a  fixed  cloud  of  lawn 
To  eclipse  eternally  these  minutes  of  light. 
I  am  prepared. — 

Woman's  Inconstancy. 

Who  would  have  thought  it  ?     She  that  could  no  more 

Forsake  my  company,  than  can  the  day 

Forsake  the  glorious  presence  of  the  sun, 

When  I  was  absent,  then  her  galled  eyes 

Would  have  shed  April  showers,  and  outwept 

The  clouds  in  that  same  o'er-passionate  mood 

When  they  drown'd  all  the  world :  yet  now  forsakes  me. 

Women,  your  eyes  shed  glances  like  the  sun  ; 

Now  shines  your  brightness,  now  your  light  is  done, 

On  the  sweet'st  flowers  you  shine,  'tis  but  by  chance, 

And  on  the  basest  weed  you'll  waste  a  glance. 


CiESAR  AND  POMPEY.    A  TRAGEDY.     BY  GEORGE  CHAPMAN. 

Sacrifice. 
Imperial  Caesar,  at  your  sacred  charge 
I  drew  a  milk  white  ox  into  the  Temple, 
And  turning  there  his  face  into  the  East 
(Fearfully  shaking  at  the  shining  light) 
Down  fell  his  horned  forehead  to  his  hoof> 
When  I  began  to  greet  him  with  the  stroke 
That  should  prepare  him  for  the  holy  rites, 
With  hideous  roars  he  laid  out  such  a  throat 
As  made  the  secret  lurkings  of  the  God 
To  answer,  Echo-like,  in  thrcat'ning  sounds  : 
I  struck  again  at  him,  and  then  he  slept ; 
His  life-blood  boiling  out  at  every  wound 
In  streams  as  clear  as  any  liquid  ruby, 

the  beast  cut  up,  and  laid  on  the  altar, 

His  limbs  were  all  lickt  up  with  instant  flames; 
part  1.  7 


82  ENGLISH  DRAMATIC  POETS 

Not  like  the  elemental  fire  that  burns 
In  household  uses,  lamely  struggling  up, 
This  way  and  that  way  winding  as  it  rises, 
But  right  and  upright  reacht  his  proper  sphere 
Where  burns  the  fire  eternal  and  sincere. 

Joy  unexpected,  best. 
Joys  unexpected,  and  in  desperate  plight, 
Are  still  most  sweet,  and  prove  from  whence  they  come ; 
When  earth's  still  moon-like  confidence  in  joy 
Is  at  her  full :  True  Joy  descending  far 
From  past  her  sphere,  and  from  the  highest  heaven 
That  moves  and  is  not  moved. 

Inward  help  the  best  help. 
1  will  stand  no  more 


On  others'  legs,  nor  build  one  joy  without  me. 

If  ever  I  be  worth  a  house  again, 

I'll  build  all  inward  :  not  a  light  shall  ope 

The  common  out- way ;  no  expense,  no  art, 

No  ornament,  no  door,  will  I  use  there ; 

But  raise  all  plain  and  rudely  like  a  rampire, 

Against  the  false  society  of  men, 

That  still  batters 

All  reason  piece-meal  ;  and,  for  earthly  greatness 

All  heavenly  comforts  rarifies  the  air. 

I'll  therefore  live  in  dark ;  and  all  my  light, 

Like  ancient  Temples,  let  in  at  my  top. 

That  where  to  turn  one's  back  to  all  the  world, 

And  only  look  at  heaven. 

When  our  diseas'd  affections 

Harmful  to  human  freedom,  and  storm-like 
Inferring  darkness  to  th'  infected  mind, 
Oppress  our  comforts  ;   'tis  but  letting  in 
The  light  of  reason,  and  a  purer  spirit 
Take  in  another  way  ;  like  rooms  that  fight 
With  windows  'gainst  the  wind,  yet  let  in  lignt. 


BUSSY  D'AMBOIS.  83 


BUSSY  D'AMBOIS.  A  TRAGEDY.  BY  GEORGE  CHAPMAN. 

A  Nuntius  (or  Messenger)  in  presence  of  King  Henry  the  Third  of 
France  and  his  court  tells  the  manner  of  a  combat,  to  which  he  was 
witness,  of  three  to  three  ;  in  which  JJAmbois  remained  sole  survivor  ; 
begun  upon  an  affront  passed  upon  D'Ambois  by  some  courtiers. 

Henry,  Guise,  Beaupre,  Nuntius,  &c. 

Nuntius.  I  saw  fierce  D'Ambois  and  his  two  brave  friends 
Enter  the  field,  and  at  their  heels  their  foes, 
Which  were  the  famous  soldiers,  Barrisor, 
L'Anou,  and  Pyrrhot,  great  in  deeds  of  arms : 
All  which  arriv'd  at  the  evenest  piece  of  earth 
The  field  atForded,  the  three  challengers 
Turn'd  head,  drew  all  their  rapiers,  and  stood  rank'd ; 
When  face  to  face  the  three  defendants  met  them, 
Alike  prepar'd,  and  resolute  alike. 
Like  bonfires  of  contributory  wood 
Every  man's  look  show'd,  fed  with  other's  spirit ; 
As  one  had  been  a  mirror  to  another, 
Like  forms  of  life  and  death  each  took  from  other  ; 
And  so  were  life  and  death  mix'd  at  their  heights, 
That  you  could  see  no  fear  of  death  (for  life) 
Nor  love  of  life  (for  death)  :   but  in  their  brows 
Pyrrho's  opinion  in  great  letters  shone  ; 
That  "  life  and  death  in  all  respects  are  one." 

Henry.  Past  there  no  sorts  of  words  at  their  encounter  ! 

Nuntius.  As  Hector  twixt  the  hosts  of  Greece  and  Troy, 
When  Paris  and  the  Spartan  king  should  end 
The  nine  years'  war,  held  up  his  brazen  lance 
For  signal  that  both  hosts  should  cease  from  arms, 
And  hear  him  speak :  so  Barrisor  (advis'd) 
Advanced  his  naked  rapier  "twixt  both  sides, 
Ript  up  the  quarrel,  and  compar'd  six  lives 
Then  laid  in  balance  with  six  idle  words ; 
OfFer'd  remission  and  contrition  too: 
Or  else  that  he  and  D'Ambois  might  conclude 
The  others'  danger.     D'Ambois  lik'd  the  last: 
But  Barrisor's  friends  (being  equally  engag'd 


84  ENGLISH  DRAMATIC  POETS. 


In  the  main  quarrel),  never  would  expose 

His  life  alone  to  that  they  all  deserv'd. 

And  (for  the  other  offer  of  remission) 

D'Ambois  (that  like  a  laurel  put  in  fire 

Sparkled  and  spit)  did  much  much  more  than  scorn 

That  his  wrong  should  incense  lim  so  like  chaff 

To  go  so  soon  out,  and,  like  lighted  paper, 

Approve  his  spirit  at  once  both  fire  and  ashes  ; 

So  drew  they  lots,  and  in  them  fates  appointed 

That  Barrisor  should  fight  with  fiery  D'Ambois  ; 

Pyrrhot  with  Melynell ;   with  Brisac  L'Anou  : 

And  then  like  flame  and  powder  they  commixt, 

So  sprightly,  that  I  wish'd  they  had  been  Spirits ; 

That  the  ne'er-shutting  wounds,  they  needs  must  open, 

Might  as  they  open'd  shut,  and  never  kill.* 

But  D'Ambois'  sword  (that  light'ned  as  it  flew) 

Shot  like  a  pointed  comet  at  the  face 

Of  manly  Barrisor  ;  and  there  it  stuck  : 

Thrice  pluck'd  he  at  it,  and  thrice  drew  on  thrusts 

From  him,  that  of  himself  was  free  as  fire ; 

Who  thrust  still,  as  he  pluck'd,  yet  (past  belief) 

He  with  his  subtil  eye,  hand,  body,  "scap'd  ; 

At  last  the  deadly  bitten  point  tugg'd  off, 

On  fell  his  yet  undaunted  foe  so  fiercely 

That  (only  made  more  horrid  with  his  wound) 

Great  D'Ambois  shrunk,  and  gave  a  little  ground  : 

But  soon  return'd,  redoubled  in  his  danger, 

And  at  the  heart  of  Barrisor  scal'd  his  anser. 

Then,  as  in  Arden  I  have  seen  an  oak 

Long  shook  with  tempests,  and  his  lofty  top 

Bent  to  his  root,  which  being  at  length  made  loose 

(Even  groaning  with  his  weight)  he  'gan  to  nod 

This  way  and  that,  as  loth  his  curled  brows 

(Which  he  had  oft  wrapt  in  the  sky  with  storms) 

Should  stoop  ;  and  yet,  his  radical  fibres  burst, 

*  One  can  hardly  believe  but  that  these  lines  were  written  after  Miltoc 
had  described  his  ivarring  angels. 


BUSSY  D'AMBOIS.  85 


Storm-like  he  fell,  and  hid  me  fear-cold  earth  : 
So  fell  stout  Barrisor,  that  had  stood  the  shocks 
Of  ten  set  battles  in  your  highness'  war 

inst  the  sole  soldier  of  the  world  Navarre. 

Juise.  O  piteous  and  horrid  murder  ! 

Beaupre.  Such  a  life 
Rethinks  had  metal  in  it  to  survive 
An  age  of  men. 

Henry.  Such  often  soonest  end. 
Thy  felt  report  calls  on ;  we  long  to  know 
On  what  events  the  others  have  arrived. 

Nuntius.  Sorrow  and  fury,  like  two  opposite  fumes 
Met  in  the  upper  region  of  a  cloud, 
At  the  report  made  by  this  worthy's  fall, 
Brake  from  the  earth,  and  with  them  rose  Revenge, 
Ent'ring  with  fresh  pow'rs  his  two  noble  friends : 
And  under  that  odds  fell  surcharg'd  Brisac, 
The  friend  of  D'Ambois,  before  fierce  L'Anou  ; 
Which  D'Ambois  seeing  :  as  I  once  did  see, 
In  my  young  travels  through  Armenia, 
An  angry  unicorn  in  his  full  career 
Charge  with  too  swift  a  foot  a  Jeweller 
That  watcht  him  for  the  treasure  of  his  brow ; 
And,  ere  he  could  get  shelter  of  a  tree, 
Nail  him  with  his  rich  antler  to  the  earth  ; 
So  D'Ambois  ran  upon  reveng'd  L'Anou, 
Who  eyeing  th'  eager  point  borne  in  his  face, 
And  giving  back,  fell  back,  and  in  his  fall 
His  foe's  uncurb'd  sword  stopt  in  his  heart : 
By  which  time  all  the  life-strings  of  th'  two  other 
Were  cut,  and  both  fell  (as  their  spirit  flew) 
Upwards  :  and  still  hunt  honor  at  the  view. 
And  now,  of  all  the  six,  sole  D'Ambois  stood 
Untouch't,  save  only  with  the  others'  blood. 

Henry.  All  slain  outright  but  he  ? 

Nuntius.  All  slain  outright  but  he  : 
Who  kneeling  in  the  warm  life  of  his  friends 
(All  freckled  with  the  blood  his  rapier  rain'd) 


80  ENGLISH  DRAMATIC  POETS. 

He  kist  their  pale  lips,  and  bade  both  farewell. 

False  Greatness. 

As  cedars  beaten  with  continual  storms, 

So  great  men  flourish  ;   and  do  imitate 

Unskilful  statuaries,  who  suppose, 

In  forming  a  Colossus,  if  they  make  him 

Straddle  enough,  strut,  and  look  big,  and  gape, 

Their  work  is  goodly :  so  men  merely  great, 

In  their  affected  gravity  of  voice, 

Sowerness  of  countenance,  manners'  cruelty, 

Authority,  wealth,  and  all  the  spawn  of  fortune, 

Think  they  bear  all  the  kingdom's  worth  before  them ; 

Yet  differ  not  from  those  Colossick  statues, 

Which,  with  heroic  forms  without  o'erspread, 

Within  are  nought  but  mortar,  flint,  and  lead. 

Virtue. — Policy. 
as  great  seamen  using  all  their  wealth 


And  skills  in  Neptune's  deep  invisible  paths, 

In  tall  ships  richly  built  and  ribb'd  with  brass, 

To  put  a  girdle  round  about  the  world ; 

When  they  have  done  it,  coming  near  the  haven, 

A  re  fain  to  give  a  warning  piece,  and  call 

A  poor  staid  fisherman  that  never  past 

His  country's  sight,  to  waft  and  guide  them  in : 

So  when  we  wander  furthest  through  the  waves 

Of  glassy  Glory,  and  the  gulfs  of  State, 

Topt  with  all  titles,  spreading  all  our  reaches, 

As  if  each  private  arm  would  sphere  the  earth. 

We  must  to  Virtue  for  her  guide  resort, 

Or  we  shall  shipwreck  in  our  safest  port. 

JVtck  of  Time 
There  is  a  deep  nick  in  Time's  restless  wheel 
For  each  man's  good,  when  which  nick  comes,  it  strikes: 
As  Rhetorick  yet  works  not  persuasion, 
But  only  is  a  mean  to  make  it  work  : 
So  no  man  riseth  by  his  real  merit, 


BYRON'S  CONSPIRACY.  s7 


But  when  it  tries  clink  in  his  Raiser's  spirit. 

Difference  of  the  English  and  French  Courts. 
Henry.     Guise.     Montsurry. 

Guise.  I  like  not  their  Court*  fashion,  it  is  too  crest-fall'n 
In  all  observance,  making  demigods 
Of  their  great  Nobles,  and  of  their  old  Queenf 
An  ever  young  and  most  immortal  Goddess. 

Mont.  No  question  she's  the  rarest  Queen  in  Europe. 

Guise.  But  what's  that  to  her  immortality  ? 

Henry.  Assure  you,  cousin  Guise  ;  so  great  a  Courtier, 
So  full  of  majesty  and  royal  parts, 
No  Queen  in  Christendom  may  vaunt  herself. 
Her  Court  approves  it.     That's  a  Court  indeed  ; 
Not  mix'd  with  clowneries  us'd  in  common  Houses : 
But,  as  Courts  should  be,  th'  abstracts  of  their  kingdoms, 
In  all  the  beauty,  state,  and  worth  they  hold. 
So  is  hers  amply,  and  by  her  inform'd, 
The  world  is  not  contracted  in  a  Man, 
With  more  proportion  and  expression, 
Than  in  her  Court  her  Kingdom.     Our  French  Court 
Is  a  mere  mirror  of  confusion  to  it. 
The  King  and  Subject,  Lord  and  every  Slave, 
Dance  a  continual  hay.     Our  rooms  of  state 
Kept  like  our  stables :  no  place  more  observ'd 
Than  a  rude  market-place  ;  and  though  our  custom 
Keep  his  assur'd  confusion  from  our  eyes, 
'Tis  ne'er  the  less  essentially  unsightly. 


BYRON'S  CONSPIRACY.      BY  GEO.  CHAPMAN 

Byron  described. 

he  is  a  man 

Of  matchless  valor,  and  was  ever  happy 

In  all  encounters,  which  were  still  made  good 

*  The  English.  t  Q-  Elizabeth. 


88  ENGLISH  DRAMATIC  POETS. 


With  an  unwearied  sense  of  any  toil ; 

Having  continued  fourteen  days  together 

Upon  his  horse  ;  his  blood  is  not  voluptuous, 

Nor  much  inclined  to  women  ;  his  desires 

Are  higher  than  his  state ;  and  his  deserts 

Not  much  short  of  the  most  he  can  desire, 

If  they  be  weigh'd  with  what  France  feels  by  them 

He  is  past  measure  glorious :  and  that  humor 

Is  fit  to  feed  his  spirit,  whom  it  possesseth 

With  faith  in  any  error ;  chiefly  where 

Men  blow  it  up  with  praise  of  his  perfections  : 

The  taste  whereof  in  him  so  soothes  his  palate, 

And  takes  up  all  his  appetite,  that  oft  times 

He  will  refuse  his  meat,  and  company, 

To  feast  alone  with  their  most  strong  conceit. 

Ambition  also  cheek  by  cheek  doth  march 

With  that  excess  of  glory,  both  sustain'd 

W'ith  an  unlimited  fancy,  that  the  king, 

Nor  France  itself,  without  him  can  subsist. 

Men's  Glories  eclipsed  when  they  turn  Traitors. 
As  when  the  moon  hath  comforted  the  night, 
And  set  the  world  in  silver  of  her  light, 
The  planets,  asterisms,  and  whole  State  of  Heaven, 
In  beams  of  gold  descending  :  all  the  winds 
Bound  up  in  caves,  charg'd  not  to  drive  abroad 
Their  cloudy  heads  :  an  universal  peace 
(Proclaim'd  in  silence)  of  the  quiet  earth 
Soon  as  her  hot  and  dry  fumes  are  let  loose, 
Storms  and  clouds  mixing  suddenly  put  out 
The  eyes  of  all  those  glories  ;  the  creation 
Turn'd  into  Chaos;   and  we  then  desire, 
For  all  our  joy  of  life,  the  death  of  sleep. 
So  when  the  glories  of  our  lives  (men's  loves, 
Clear  consciences,  our  fames  and  loyalties), 
That  did  us  worthy  comfort,  are  eclips'd  : 
Grief  and  disgrace  invade  us ;  and  for  all 
Our  night  of  life  besides,  our  misery  craves 
Dark  earth  would  ope  and  hide  us  in  our  graves. 


BYRON'S  CONSPIRACY.  s'.t 


Opinion  of  the  Scale  of  Good  or  Bad. 
there  is  no  truth  of  any  good 


To  be  discern'd  on  earth  ;  and  by  conversion, 
Nought  therefore  simply  bad  ;   but  as  the  stuff 
Prepar'd  for  Arras  pictures,  is  no  picture, 
Till  it  be  form'd,  and  man  hath  cast  the  beams 
Of  his  imaginous  fancy  thorough  it, 
In  forming  ancient  Kings  and  Conquerors 
As  he  conceives  they  look'd  and  were  attir'd, 
Though  they  were  nothing  so  :  so  all  things  here 
Have  all  their  price  set  down  from  men's  Conceits  ; 
W  hich  make  all  terms  and  actions  good  or  bad, 
And  are  but  pliant  and  well-color'd  threads 
But  into  feigned  images  of  Truth. 

Insinuating  Manners. 
We  must  have  these  lures,  when  we  hawk  for  friends : 
And  wind  about  them  like  a  subtle  River, 
That,  seeming  only  to  run  on  his  course, 
Doth  search  yet,  as  he  runs,  and  still  finds  out 
The  easiest  parts  of  entry  on  the  shore, 
Gliding  so  slyly  by,  as  scarce  it  touch'd, 
Yet  still  eats  something  in  it. 

The   Stars   not  able  to  foreshow  anything. 

I  am  a  nobler  substance  than  the  stars : 

And  shall  the  baser  over  rule  the  better  ? 

Or  are  they  better  since  they  are  the  bigger  ? 

I  have  a  will,  and  faculties  of  choice, 

To  do  or  not  to  do  ;  and  reason  why 

I  do  or  not  do  this  :  the  stars  have  none. 

Tliev  know  not  why  they  shine,  more  than  this  Taper, 

Nor  how  they  work,  nor  what.     I'll  cnange  my  course 

I'll  piece-meal  pull  the  frame  of  all  my  thoughts : 

And  where  are  all  your  Caput  Algols  then  ? 

Your  planets  all  being  underneath  the  earth 

At  my  nativity  :  what  can  they  do  ? 

Malignant  in  aspects  !  in  bloody  houses  ! 


yo  ENGLISH   DRAMATIC  POETS. 

\ 
The   Master    Spirit.  r 

Give  me  a  spirit  that  on  life's  rough  sea 
Loves  to  have  his  sails  fill'd  with  a  lusty  wind, 
Even  till  his  sail-yards  tremhle,  his  masts  crack, 
And  his  rapt  ship  run  on  her  side  so  low, 
That  she  drinks  water,  and  her  keel  ploughs  air. 
.There  is  no  danger  to  a  man,  that  knows 
What  life  and  death  is  :  there's  not  any  law 
Exceeds  his  knowledge  ;  neither  is  it  lawful 
That  he  should  stoop  to  any  other  law  : 
He  goes  before  them,  and  commands  them  all, 
That  to  himself  is  a  law  rational. 

Vile   Natures    in    High    Places. 

foolish  Statuaries, 

That  under  little  Saints,  suppose*  great  bases, 

Make  less  (to  sense)  the  saints :  and  so,  where  fortune 

Advanceth  vile  minds  to  states  great  and  noble, 

She  much  the  more  exposeth  them  to  shame  ; 

Not  able  to  make  good,  and  fill  their  bases 

With  a  conformed  structure. 

Innocence  the  Harmony  of  the  Faculties. 
Innocence,  the  sacred  amulet 


'Gainst  all  the  poisons  of  infirmity, 

Of  all  misfortune,  injury  and  death  : 

That  makes  a  man  in  tune  still  in  himself; 

Free  from  the  hell  to  be  his  own  accuser  ; 

Ever  in  quiet,  endless  joy  enjoying, 

No  strife  nor  no  sedition  in  his  powers  ; 

No  motion  in  his  will  against  his  reason ; 

No  thought  'gainst  thought ;  nor  (as  'twere  in  the  confine!* 

Of  whispering  and  repenting)  both  possess 

Only  a  wayward  and  tumultuous  peace  ; 

But,  all  parts  in  him  friendly  and  secure, 

Fruitful  of  all  best  things  in  all  worst  seasons, 

He  can  with  every  wish  be  in  their  plenty  : 

*  Put  under. 


BYRON  S  TRAGEDY.  9J 


When  the  infectious  guilt  of  one  foul  crime 
Destroys  the  free  content  of  all  our  time. 


BYRON'S  TRAGEDY.     BY  GEO.  CHAPMAN. 
King  Henry  the   Fourth   of  France  blesses   the  young  Dauphin. 

My  royal  blessing,  a«d  the  King  of  Heaven, 

Make  thee  an  aged  and  a  happy  King 

Help,  nurse,  to  put  my  sword  into  his  hand. 

Hold,  boy,  by  this  ;  and  with  it  may  thy  arm 

Cut  from  thy  tree  of  rule  all  traitrous  branches, 

That  strive  to  shadow  and  eclipse  thy  glories. 

Have  thy  old  father's  Angel  for  thy  guide, 

Redoubled  be  his  spirit  in  thy  breast : 

Mho,  when  this  State  ran  like  a  turbulent  sea, 

In  civil  hates  and  bloody  enmity, 

Their  wraths  and  envies  (like  so  many  winds) 

Settled  and  burst :  and  like  the  Halcyon's  birth 

Be  thine,  to  bring  a  calm  upon  the  shore  : 

In  which  the  eyes  of  war  may  ever  sleep, 

As  over-watch'd  with  former  massacres, 

When  guilty  mad  Noblesse  fed  on  Noblesse, 

All  the  sweet  plenty  of  the  realm  exhausted ; 

When  the  nak'd  merchant  was  pursued  for  spoil  : 

When  the  poor  peasants  frighted  neediest  thieves 

With  their  pale  leanness,  nothing  left  on  them 

But  meagre  carcases,  sustained  with  air, 

Wandering  like  ghosts  affrighted  from  their  graves  ; 

When  with  the  often  and  incessant  sounds 

The  very  beasts  knew  the  alarum-bell, 

And  hearing  it  ran  bellowing  to  their  home  ; 

From  which  unchristian  broils  and  homicides 

Let  the  religious  sword  of  Justice  free 

Thee,  and  thy  kingdoms  govern'd  after  me ; 

O  Heaven  !  Or  if  the  unsettled  blood  of  France, 

With  ease  and  wealth,  renew  her  civil  furies, 


92  ENGLISH  DRAMATIC  POETS. 


Let  all  my  powers  be  emptied  in  my  Son ; 
To  curb  and  end  them  all  as  I  have  done. 
Let  him  by  virtue  quite  cut  olF  from  Fortune 
Her  feather'd  shoulders,  and  her  winged  shoes, 
And  thrust  from  her  light  feet  her  turning  stone ; 
That  she  may  ever  tarry  by  his  throne.    ■ 
And  of  his  worth  let  after  ages  say 
(He  fighting  for  the  land,  and  bringing  home 
Just  conquests,  loaden  with  his  enemies'  spoifc), 
His  father  past  all  France  in  martial  deeds.. 
But  he  his  father  twenty  times  exceeds. 

Wliat  we  have,  we  slight ;  what  we  want,  we  think  excellent. 
as  a  man,  match'd  with  a  lovely  wife, 


When  his  most  heavenly  theory  of  her  beauties 
Is  dull'd  and  quite  exhausted  with  his  practice, 
He  brings  her  forth  to  feasts,  where  he,  alas, 
Falls  to  his  viands  with  no  thought  like  others, 
That  think  him  blest  in  her  ;  and  they,  poor  men, 
Court,  and  make  faces,  offer  service,  sweat 
With  their  desires'  contention,  break  their  brains 
For  jests  and  tales,  sit  mute,  and  loose  their  looks, 
Far  out  of  wit  and  out  of  countenance. 
So  all  men  else  do,  what  they  have,  transplant ; 
And  place  their  wealth  in  thirst  of  what  they  want. 

Soliloquy  of  King  Henry  deliberating  on  the  Death  of  a  Traitor . 
O  thou  that  governst  the  keen  swords  of  Kings, 
Direct  my  arm  in  this  important  stroke, ; 
Or  hold  it,  being  advanc'd  :  the  weight  of  blood. 
Even  in  the  basest  subject,  doth  exact 
Deep  consultation  in  the  highest  King : 
For  in  one  subject,  death's  unjust  affrights, 
Passions,  and  pains,  though  he  be  ne'er  so  poor, 
Ask  more  remorse  than  the  voluptuous  spleens 
Of  all  Kings  in  the  world  deserve  respect. 
He  should  be  born  grey-headed  that  will  bear 
The  weight  of  Empire.     Judgment  of  the  life, 
Free  state  and  reputation  of  a  Man 


BYRON'S  TRAGEDY.  93 


(Tf  it  be  just  and  worthy)  dwells  so  dark, 

That  it  denies  access  to  sun  and  moon  : 

The  soul's  eye,  sharpen'd  with  that  sacred  light 

Of  whom  the  sun  itself  is  but  a  beam, 

Must  only  give  that  judgment.     O  how  much 

Err  those  Kings  then,  that  play  with  life  and  death  ; 

And  nothing  put  into  their  serious  states 

But  humor  and  their  lusts  ;   for  which  alone 

Men  long  for  kingdoms ;  whose  huge  counterpoise 

In  cares  and  dangers  could  a  fool  comprise, 

He  would  not  be  a  King,  but  would  be  wise. 

[The  Selections  which  I  have  made  from  this  poet  are  sufficient  to  give 
an  idea  of  that  "  full  and  heightened  style"  which  Webster  makes  charac- 
teristic of  Chapman.     Of  all   the   English  Play-writers,  Chapman  perhaps 
approaches  nearest  to   Shakspeare  in  the  descriptive  and  didactic,  in  pas- 
sages which  are  less  purel  ydramatic.    Dramatic  imitation  was  not  his  talent. 
He  could  not  go  out  of  himself,   as  Shakspeare  could  shift  at  pleasure,  to 
inform  and  animate  other  existences,  but  in  himself  he  had  an  eye  to  per- 
ceive   and   a  soul  to  embrace  all  forms.     He  would  have    made    a   great 
epic  poet,  if,  indeed,  he  has  not  abundantly  shown  himself  to  be  one  ;  for  his 
Homer  is  not  so  properly  a  Translation  as  the  Stories  of  Achilles  and  Ulysses 
re- written.     The  earnestness  and  passion  which  he  has  put  into  every  part 
of  these  poems  would  be  incredible  to  a  reader  of  mere  modern  translations. 
His  almost  Greek  zeal  for  the  honor  of  his  heroes  is  only  paralleled  by  that 
fierce  spirit  of  Hebrew  bigotry,  with  which  Milton,  as  if  personating  one  of 
the  Zealots  of  the  old  law,  clothed  himself  when  he  sate  down  to  paint  the 
acts  of  Sampson  against  the  imcircumcised.     The  great  obstacle  to  Chap- 
man's Translations  being  read  is  their  unconquerable  quaintness.     He  pours 
out  in  the  same  breath  the  most  just  and  natural  and  the  most  violent  and 
forced  expressions.     He  seems  to  grasp  whatever  words  come  first  to  hand 
during  the  impetus  of  inspiration,  as  if  all  other  must  be  inadequate  to  the 
divine  meaning.     But  passion  (the  all  in  all  in  Poetry)  is  everywhere  pre- 
sent, raising  the  low,  dignifying  the  mean,  and  putting  sense  into  the  absurd. 
He  makes  his  readers  glow,  weep,  tremble,  take  any  affection  which  he 
pleases,  be  moved  by  words,  or  in  spite  of  them,  be  disgusted  and  overcome 
their  disgust.     I  have  often  thought  that  the  vulgar  misconception  of  Shak-' 
speare,  as  of  a  wild  irregular  genius  "  in  whom  great  faults  are  compensat 
ed  by  great  beauties,"  would  be  really  true  applied  to  Chapman.     But  there 
is  no"  scale  by  which  to  balance  such  disproportionate  subjects  as  the  faults 
and  beauties  of  a  great  genius.     To  set    off  the   former  with  any  fairness 
against  the  latter,  the  pain  which  they  give  us  should  be  in  some  propor- 
tion to  the  pleasure  which  we  receive  from  the  other.     As  these  transport 
us  to  the  highest  heaven,  those  should  steep  us  in  agonies  infernal.] 


94  ENGLISH  DRAMATIC  POETS. 

A  CHALLENGE  FOR  BEAUTY.      BY  THOMAS -HEYWOOD. 

Petrocella  a  fair  Spanish  Ladyloves  Montferrers  an  English  Sea  Cap- 
tain, who  is  Captive  to  Valladaura  a  noble  Spaniard. —  Valladaura 
loves  the  Lady  ;  and  employs  Montferrers  to  be  the  Messenger  of  his 
love  to  her. 

Petrocella.     Montferrers. 

Pet.  What  art  thou  in  thy  country  ? 

Mont.   There,  a  man. 

Pet.  What  here  ? 

Mont.  No  better  than  you  see  :  a  slave. 

Pet.  Whose? 

Mont.  His  that  hath  redeem'd  me. 

Pet.   Valladaura '"s  ? 

Mont.  Yes,  I  proclaim  't ;   I  that  was  once  mine  own, 
Am  now  become  his  creature. 

Pet.  I  perceive, 
Your  coming  is  to  make  me  think  you  noble. 
Would  you  persuade  me  deem  your  friend  a  God  ? 
For  only  such  make  men.     Are  you  a  Gentleman  ? 

Mont.  Not  here  ;   for  I  am  all  dejectedness, 
Captive  to  fortune,  and  a  slave  to  want ; 
I  cannot  call  these  clothes  I  wear  mine  own, 
I  do  not  eat  but  at  another's  cost, 
This  air  1  breathe  is  borrowed  ;  ne'er  was  man 
So  poor  and  abject.     I  have  not  so  much 
In  all  this  universe  as  a  thing  to  leave, 
Or  a  country  I  can  freely  boast  is  mine. 
My  essence  and  my  being  is  another's. 
What  should  I  say  ?     I  am  not  anything  ; 
And  I  possess  as  little. 

Pet.  Tell  me  that  ? 
Come,  come,  I  know  you  to  be  no  such  man. 
You  are  a  soldier  valiant  and  renown'd  ; 
Your  carriage  tried  by  land,  and  prov'd  at  sea  ; 
Of  which  I  have  heard  such  full  expression, 
No  contradiction  can  persuade  you  less  ; 
And  in  this  faith  I  am  constant. 


A  CHALLENGE  EOR  BEAUTY.  95 

Mont.  A  meer  worm, 
Trod  on  by  every  fate. 

Pet.  Rais'd  by  your  merit 
To  be  a  common  argument  through  Spain, 
And  speech  at  Princes'  tables,  for  your  worth  ; 
Your  presence  when  you  please  to  expose  't  abroad 
Attracts  all  eyes,  and  draws  them  after  you  ; 
And  those  that  understand  you,  call  their  friends, 
And  pointing  through  the  street,  say,  This  is  he, 
This  is  that  brave  and  noble  Englishman, 
Whom  soldiers  strive  to  make  their  precedent, 
And  other  men  their  wonder. 

Mont.  This  your  scorn 
Makes  me  appear  more  abject  to  myself, 
Than  all  diseases  I  have  tasted  yet 
Had  power  to  asperse  upon  me  ;  and  yet,  lady, 
I  could  say  something,  durst  I. 

Pet.  Speak  't  at  once. 

Mont.  And  yet 

Pet.  Nay,  but  we'll  admit  no  pause. 

Mont.  I  know  not  how  my  phrase  may  relish  you, 
And  loth  I  were  to  offend  ;  even  in  what's  past 
I  must  confess  I  was  too  bold.     Farewell  ; 
I  shall  no  more  distaste  you. 

Pet.  Sir,  you  '.o  not ; 
1  do  proclaim  you  do  not.     Stay,  I  charge  you ; 
Or,  as  you  say  you  have  been  fortune's  scorn, 
So  ever  prove  to  woman. 

Mont.  You  charge  deeply, 
And  yet  now  I  bethink  me 

Pet.  As  you  are  a  soldier, 
And  Englishman,  have  hope  to  be  redeem'd 
From  this  your  scorned  bondage  you  sustain, 
Have  comfort  in  your  mother  and  fair  sister, 
Renown  so  blazed  in  the  ears  of  Spain, 
Hope  to  rebreathe  that  air  you  tasted  first, 
So  tell  me 

Ment.  What? 


y(i  ENGLISH  DRAMATIC  POETS. 


Pet.  Your  apprehension  catch'd, 
And  almost  was  in  sheaf 

Mont.  Lady,  I  shall. 

Pet.  And  in  a  word. 

Mont.  I  will. 

Pet.  Pronounce  it  then. 

Mont.  1  love  you. 

Pet.  Ha,  ha,  ha. 

Mont.  Still  it  is  my  misery 
Thus  to  be  mock'd  in  all  things. 

Pet.  Pretty,  faith. 

Mont.  I  look'd  thus  to  be  laught  at ;  my  estate 
And  fortunes,  I  confess,  deserve  no  less ; 
That  made  me  so  unwilling  to  denounce 
Mine  own  derisions  :  but  alas  !  I  find 
No  nation,  sex,  complexion,  birth,  degree, 
But  jest  at  want,  and  mock  at  misery. 

Pet.  Love  me  1 

Mont.  I  do,  I  do  ;  and  maugre  Fate, 
And  spite  of  all  sinister  evil,  shall. 
And  now  I  charge  you,  by  that  filial  zeal 
You  owe  your  father,  by  the  memory 
Of  your  dear  mother,  by  the  joys  you  hope 
In  blessed  marriage,  by  the  fortunate  issue 
Stored  in  your  womb,  by  these  and  all  things  ek<3 
That  you  can  style  with  goodness  ;  instantly 
Without  evasion,  trick,  or  circumstance, 
Nay,  least  premeditation,  answer  me, 
Affect  you  me,  or  no  ? 

Pet.  How  speak  you  that  ? 

Mont.  Without  demur  or  pause. 

Pet.  Give  me  but  time 
To  sleep  upon  't. 

Mont.  I  pardon  you  no  minute  :  not  so  much, 
As  to  apparel  the  least  phrase  you  speak. 
Speak  in  the  shortest  sentence. 

Pet.  You  have  vanquish'd  me, 
At  mine  own  weapon  :  noble  sir,  I  love  you  ; 


A  CHALLENGE  FOR  BEAUTY.  97 

* 

And  what  my  heart  durst  never  tell  my  tongue, 
Lest  it  should  blab  my  thoughts,  at  last  I  speak, 
And  iterate  ;  I  love  you. 

Mont.  Oh,  my  happiness  ! 
What  wilt  thou  feel  me  still  ?  art  thou  not  weary 
Of  making  me  thy  May-game,  to  possess  me 
Of  such  a  treasure's  mighty  magazine, 
Not  suffer  me  to  enjoy  it ;  tane  with  this  hand, 
With  that  to  give  't  another  ! 

Pet.  You  are  sad,  Sir  ; 
Be  so  no  more  :  if  you  have  been  dejected, 
It  lies  in  me  to  mount  you  to  that  height 
You  could  not  aim  at  greater.     I  am  yours. 
These  lips,  that  only  witness  it  in  air, 
Now  with  this  truth  confirm  it.  [Kisses  him. 

Mont.  I  was  born  to  't ; 
And  it  shall  out  at  once. 

Pet.  Sir,  you  seem  passionate  ; 
As  if  my  answer  pleas'd  not. 

Mont.  Now  my  death  ; 
For  mine  own  tongue  must  kill  me  :  noble  Lady, 
You  have  endear'd  me  to  you,  but  my  vow 
Was,  ne'er  to  match  with  any,  of  what  state 
Or  birth  soever,  till  before  the  contract 
Some  one  thing  I  impose  her. 

Pet.  She  to  do  it  ? 

Mont.  Or,  if  she  fail  me  in  my  first  demand, 
I  to  abjure  her  ever. 

Pet.  I  am  she, 
That  beg  to  be  imploy'd  so  :  name  a  danger, 
Whose  very  face  would  fright  all  womanhood, 
And  manhood  put  in  trance,  nay,  whose  aspect 
Would  ague  such  as  should  but  hear  it  told  ; 
But  to  the  sad  beholder,  prove  like  those 
That  gazed  upon  Medusa's  snaky  locks, 
And  turn'd  them  into  marble  :  these  and  more, 
Should  you  but  speak  't,  Id  do. 

Mont.  And  swear  to  this  ? 

PART  I.  8 


98  ENGLISH  DRAMATIC  POETS. 

• 

Pet.  I  vow  it  by  my  honor,  my  best  hopes, 
And  all  that  I  wish  gracious :  name  it  then, 
For  I  am  in  a  longing  in  my  soul, 
To  show  my  love's  expression. 

Mont.  You  shall  then 

Pet.  I'll  do  it,  as  I  am  a  Virgin  • 
Lie  it  within  mortality,  I'll  do  it. 

Mont.  You  shall 

Pet.  I  will :  that  which  appears  in  you 
So  terrible  to  speak,  I'll  joy  to  act ; 
And  take  pride  in  performance. 

Mont.  Then  you  shall 

Pet.  What  soldier,  what  ? 

Mont.  —  love  noble  Valladaura  ; 
And  at  his  soonest  appointment  marry  him. 

Pet.  Then  I  am  lost. 

Miracle  of  Beauty. 

I  remember,* 
There  lived  a  Spanish  Princess  of  our  name, 
An  Isabella  too,  and  not  long  since, 
Who  from  her  palace  windows  stedfastly 
Gazing  upon  the  Sun,  her  hair  took  fire. 
Some  augurs  held  it  as  a  prodigy  : 
I  rather  think  that  she  was  Latona's  brood, 
And  that  Apollo  courted  her  bright  hair  ; 
Else,  envying  that  her  tresses  put  down  his, 
He  scorcht  them  off  in  envy  ;  nor  dare  I 
(From  her  deriv'd)  expose  me  to  his  beams  ; 
Lest,  as  he  burns  the  Phoenix  in  her  nest, 
Made  of  the  sweetest  aromatic  wood, 
Either  in  love,  or  envy,  he  agree 
To  use  the  like  combustion  upon  me. 

*  A  proud  Spanish  Princess  relates  thin. 


THE  ROYAL  KING  AND  THE  LOYAL  SUBJECT.  99 


THE  ROYAL  KING  AND  THE  LOYAL  SUBJECT.      BY  THOMAS 

HEYWOOD. 

JVoble  Traitor. 

A  Persian  History 
I  read  of  late,  how  the  great  Sophy  once 
Flying  a  noble  Falcon  at  the  Heme, 
In  comes  by  chance  an  Eagle  sousing  by : 
Which  when  the  Hawk  espies,  leaves  her  first  game, 
And  boldly  ventures  on  the  King  of  Birds ; 
Long  tugg'd  they  in  the  air,  till  at  the  length 
The  Falcon  (better  breath'd)  seiz'd  on  the  Eagle, 
And  struck  it  dead.     The  Barons  prais'd  the  Bird, 
And  for  her  courage  she  was  peerless  held. 
The  Emperor,  after  some  deliberate  thoughts, 
Made  her  no  less  ;  he  caus'd  a  crown  of  gold 
To  be  new  fram'd,  and  fitted  to  her  head, 
In  honor  of  her  courage  :  then  the  Bird, 
With  great  applause,  was  to  the  market-place 
In  triumph  borne ;  where,  when  her  utmost  worth 
Had  been  proclaimed,  the  common  executioner 
First  by  the  King's  command  took  off  her  crown, 
And  after  with  a  sword  struck  off*  her  head, 
As  one  no  better  than  a  noble  Traitor 
Unto  the  King  of  Birds. 


A  WOMAN  KILL'D  WITH  KINDNESS :  A  TRAGEDY. 
BY  THOMAS  HEYWOOD. 

Mr.  Frankford  discovers  that  his  Wife  has  been  unfaithful  to  him^ 
Mrs.  Fra.  O  by  what  words,  what  title,  or  what  name 

Shall  I  entreat  your  pardon  ?     Pardon  !  oh  ! 

I  am  as  far  from  hoping  such  sweet  grace, 

As  Lucifer  from  heaven.     To  call  you  husband ! 

(O  me  most  wretched !)  I  have  lost  that  name, 

I  am  no  more  your  wife. 


100  ENGLISH  DRAMATIC  POETS. 

Fran.  Spare  thou  thy  tears,  for  I  will  weep  for  thee, 
And  keep  thy  countenance,  for  I'll  blush  for  thee. 
Now,  I  protest,  I  think,  'tis  I  am  tainted, 
For  I  am  most  asham'd ;  and  'tis  more  hard 
For  me  to  look  upon  thy  guilty  face, 
Than  on  the  sun's  clear  brow  :  what  wouldst  thou  speak  ? 

Mrs.  Fra.  I  would  I  had  no  tongue,  no  ears,  no  eyes, 
No  apprehension,  no  capacity. 

When  do  you  spurn  me  like  a  dog  ?  when  tread  me 
Under  feet  ?  when  drag  me  by  the  hair  ? 
Tho'  I  deserve  a  thousand  thousand  fold 
More  than  you  can  inflict :  yet,  once  my  husband, 
For  womanhood,  to  which  I  am  a  shame, 
Though  once  an  ornament ;  even  for  his  sake 
That  hath  redeem'd  our  souls,  mark  not  my  face, 
Nor  hack  me  with  your  sword  :  but  let  me  go 
Perfect  and  undeformed  to  my  tomb. 
I  am  not  worthy  that  I  should  prevail 
In  the  least  suit ;  no,  not  to  speak  to  you, 
Nor  look  on  you,  nor  to  be  in  your  presence : 
Yet  as  an  abject  this  one  suit  I  crave, 
This  granted,  I  am  ready  for  my  grave. 

Fran.  My  God,  with  patience  arm  me !  rise,  nay  rise, 
And  I'll  debate  with  thee.     Was  it  for  want 
Thou  plaid'st  the  strumpet.     Wast  thou  not  supply'd 
With  every  pleasure,  fashion,  and  new  toy  ; 
Nay  even  beyond  my  calling  ? 

Mrs.  Fra.  I  was. 

Fran.  Was  it  then  disability  in  me  ? 
Or  in  thine  eyes  seem'd  he  a  properer  man  ? 

Mrs.  Fra.  O  no. 

J?ran.  Did  not  I  lodge  thee  in  my  bosom  ? 
Wear  thee  in  my  heart  ? 

Mrs.  Fra.  You  did. 

Fran.  I  did  indeed,  witness  my  tears  I  did. 
Go  bring  my  infants  hither.     O  Nan,  O  Nan ; 
If  neither  fear  of  shame,  regard  of  honor, 
The  blemish  of  my  house,  nor  my  dear  love, 


A  WOMAN  KILL'D.  WITH  KINBNESS.  1.01 

Could  have  withheld  thee  from  so  lewd  a  fact, 
Yet  for  these  infants,  these  young  harmless  souls, 
On  whose  white  brows  thy  shame  is  character'd, 
And  grows  in  greatness  as  they  wax  in  years ; 
Look  but  on  them,  and  melt  away  in  tears. 
Away  with  them  :  lest  as  her  spotted  body 
Hath  stained  their  names  with  stripe  of  bastardy, 
So  her  adulterous  breath  may  blast  their  spirits 
With  her  infectious  thoughts.     Away  with  them. 

Mrs.  Fra.  In  this  one  life  I  die  ten  thousand  deaths. 

Fran.  Stand  up,  stand  up,  I  will  do  nothing  rashly. 
I  will  retire  awhile  into  my  study, 
And  thou  shalt  hear  thy  sentence  presently.  [Exit. 

He  returns  with  Cranwell  his  friend.     She  falls  on  her  knees. 

Fran.  My  words  are  register'd  in  heaven  already. 
With  patience  hear  me.     I'll  not  martyr  thee, 
Nor  mark  thee  for  a  strumpet ;  but  with  usage 
Of  more  humility  torment  thy  soul, 
And  kill  thee  even  with  kindness. 

Cran.  Mr.  Frankford. 

Fran.  Good  Mr.  Cranwell. — Woman,  hear  thy  judgment; 
Go  make  thee  ready  in  thy  best  attire ; 
Take  with  thee  all  thy  gowns,  all  thy  apparel : 
Leave  nothing  that  did  ever  call  thee  mistress, 
Or  by  whose  sight,  being  left  here  in  the  house, 
I  may  remember  such  a  woman  was. 
Choose  thee  a  bed  and  hangings  for  thy  chamber ; 
Take  with  thee  everything  which  hath  thy  mark, 
And  get  thee  to  my  manor  seven  miles  off; 
Where  live  ;    'tis  thine,  I  freely  give  it  thee, 
My  tenants  by  shall  furnish  thee  with  wains 
To  carry  all  thy  stuff  within  two  hours ; 
No  longer  will  I  limit  thee  my  sight. 
Choose  which  of  all  my  servants  thou  lik'st  best, 
And  they  are  thine  to  attend  thee. 

Mrs.  Fra.  A  mild  sentence. 

Fran.  But  as  thou  hop'st  for  heaven,  as  thou  believ'st 


102  ENGLISH  DRAMATIC  POETS. 

Thy  name's  recorded  in  the  book  of  life, 
I  charge  thee  never  after  this  sad  day 
To  see  me  or  to  meet  me ;  or  to  send 
By  word,  or  writing,  gift,  or  otherwise, 
To  move  me,  by  thyself,  or  by  thy  friends  ; 
Nor  challenge  any  part  in  my  two  children. 
So  farewell,  Nan ;  for  we  will  henceforth  be 
As  we  had  never  seen,  ne'er  more  shall  see. 

Mrs.  Fra.  How  full  my  heart  is,  in  mine  eyes  appears ; 
What  wants  in  words,  I  will  supply  in  tears. 

Fran.  Come,  take  your  coach,  your  stuff;  all  must  along: 
Servants  and  all  make  ready,  all  be  gone. 
It  was  thy  hand  cut  two  hearts  out  of  one. 

Ceanwell,  Feankfoed,  and  Nicholas,  a  Servant. 

Cran.  Why  do  you  search  each  room  about  your  house, 
Now  that  you  have  dispatch'd  your  wife  away  ? 

Fran.  O  sir,  to  see  that  nothing  may  be  left 
That  ever  was  my  wife's  ;  1  lov'd  her  dearly, 
And  when  I  do  but  think  of  her  unkindness, 
My  thoughts  are  all  in  hell ;  to  avoid  which  torment, 
I  would  not  have  a  bodkin  nor  a  cuff, 
A  bracelet,  necklace,  or  rebato  wire, 
Nor  anything  that  ever  was  call'd  her's, 
Left  me,  by  which  I  might  remember  her. 
Seek  round  about. 

IXic.  Here's  her  lute  flung  in  a  corner. 

Fran.  Her  lute  ?  Oh  God  !  upon  this  instrument 
Her  fingers  have  ran  quick  division, 
Swifter  than  that  which  now  divides  our  hearts. 
These  frets  have  made  me  pleasant,  that  have  now 
Frets  of  my  heart-strings  made.     O  master  Cranwell, 
Oft  hath  she  made  this  melancholy  wood 
(Now  mute  and  dumb  for  her  disastrous  chance) 
Speak  sweetly  many  a  note,  sound  many  a  strain 
To  her  own  ravishing  voice,  which  being  well  strung, 
What  pleasant  strange  airs  have  they  jointly  rung ! 


A  WOMAN  KILL'D  WITH  KINDNESS.  103 

Post  with  it  after  her  ;  now  nothing's  left ; 
Of  her  and  her's  I  am  at  once  bereft. 

Nicholas  overtakes  Mrs.  Frankford  on  her  journey,  and  delivers 

the  lute. 

Mrs.  Fra.  I  know  the  lute  ;  oft  have  I  sung  to  thee : 
We  both  are  out  of  tune,  both  out  of  time. 

Nic.  My  master  commends  him  unto  ye  ; 
There's  all  he  can  find  that  was  ever  yours. 
He  prays  you  to  forget  him,  and  so  he  bids  you  farewell. 

Mrs.  Fra.  I  thank  him,  he  is  kind,  and  ever  was. 
All  you  that  have  true  feeling  of  my  grief, 
That  know  my  loss,  and  have  relenting  hearts, 
Gird  me  about ;  and  help  me  with  your  tears 
To  wash  my  spotted  sins  :  my  lute  shall  groan  ; 
It  cannot  weep,  but  shall  lament  my  moan. 
If  you  return  unto  your  master,  say 
(Tho'  not  from  me,  for  I  am  unworthy 
To  blast  his  name  so  with  a  strumpet's  tongue) 
That  you  have  seen  me  weep,  wish  myself  dead.  • 
Nay  you  may  say  too  ( for  my  vow  is  past) 
Last  night  you  saw  me  eat  and  drink  my  last. 
This  to  your  master  you  may  say  and  swear : 
For  it  is  writ  in  heaven,  and  decreed  here. 
Go  break  this  lute  on  my  coach's  wheel, 
As  the  last  music  that  I  e'er  shall  make ; 
Not  as  my  husband's  gift,  but  my  farewell 
To  all  earth's  joy  ;  and  so  your  master  tell. 

Nic.  I'll  do  your  commendations. 

Mrs.  Fra.  O  no  : 
I  dare  not  so  presume  ;  nor  to  my  children  : 
I  am  disclaim'd  in  both,  alas,  I  am. 
O  never  teach  them,  when  they  come  to  speak, 
To  name  the  name  of  mother ;  chide  their  tongue 
If  they  by  chance  light  on  that  hated  word  ; 
Tell  them  'tis  naught,  for  when  that  word  they  name 
(Poor  pretty  souls)  they  harp  on  their  own  shame. 
So,  now  unto  my  coach,  then  to  my  home, 


104  ENGLISH  DRAMATIC  POETS. 


So  to  my  death-bed  ;  for  from  this  sad  hour, 

I  never  will  nor  eat,  nor  drink,  nor  taste 

Of  any  cates  that  may  preserve  my  life  : 

I  never  will  nor  smile,  nor  sleep,  nor  rest. 

But  when  my  tears  have  wash'd  my  black  soul  white, 

Sweet  Saviour  to  thy  hands  I  yield  my  sprite. 

Mrs.  Frankford  {dying).  Sir  Francis  Acton  (her  brother). 
Sir  Charles  Mountford.  Mr.  Malby,  and  other  of  her  hus- 
band's friends. 

Mai.  How  fare  you,  Mrs.  Frankford  ? 

Mrs.  Fra.  Sick,  sick,  O  sick  :  give  me  some  air.     I  pray 
Tell  me,  oh  tell  me,  where  is  Mr.  Frankford. 
Will  he  not  deign  to  see  me  ere  I  die  ? 

Mai.  Yes,  Mrs.  Frankford :  divers  gentlemen, 
Your  loving  neighbors,  with  that  just  request 
Have  mov'd  and  told  him  of  your  weak  estate : 
Who,  tho'  with  much  ado  to  get  belief, 
Examining  of  the  general  circumstance, 
Seeing  your  sorrow  and  your  penitence, 
And  hearing  therewithal  the  great  desire 
You  have  to  see  him  ere  you  left  the  world, 
He  gave  to  us  his  faith  to  follow  us ; 
And  sure  he  will  be  here  immediately. 

Mrs.  Fra.  You  have  half  reviv'd  me  with  the  pleasing  news  : 
Raise  me  a  little  higher  in  my  bed. 
Blush  I  not,  brother  Acton  ?  blush  I  not,  sir  Charles  ? 
Can  you  not  read  my  fault  writ  in  my  cheek  ? 
Is  not  my  crime  there  ?  tell  me,  gentlemen. 

Char.  Alas  !  good  mistress,  sickness  hath  not  left  you 
Blood  in  your  face  enough  to  make  you  blush. 

Mrs.  Fra.  Then  sickness  like  a  friend  my  fault  would  hide. 
Is  my  husband  come  ?  my  soul  but  tarries 
His  arrival,  then  I  am  fit  for  heaven. 

Acton.  I  came  to  chide  you,  but  my  words  of  hate 
Are  turn'd  to  pity  and  compassionate  grief. 
I  came  to  rate  you,  but  my  brawls,  you  see, 


A  WOMAN  KILL'D  WITH  KINDNESS.  1U5 

Melt  into  tears,  and  I  must  weep  by  thee. 
Here's  Mr.  Frankford  now. 

Mr.  Frankford  enters. 

Fran.  Good-morrow,  brother  ;  morrow,  gentlemen  : 
God,  that  hath  laid  this  cross  upon  our  heads, 
Might  (had  he  pleas'd)  have  made  our  cause  of  meeting 
On  a  more  fair  and  more  contented  ground  : 
But  he  that  made  us,  made  us  to  his  wo. 

Mrs.  Fra.  And  is  he  come  ?  methinks  that  voice  I  know. 

Fran.  How  do  you,  woman  ? 

Mrs.  Fra.  Well,  Mr.  Frankford,  well ;  but  shall  be  better 
I  hope  within  this  hour.     Will  you  vouchsafe 
(Out  of  your  grace,  and  your  humanity) 
To  take  a  spotted  strumpet  by  the  hand  ? 

Fran.  This  hand  once  held  my  heart  in  faster  bonds 
Than  now  'tis  grip'd  by  me.     God  pardon  them 
That  made  us  first  break  hold. 

Mrs.  Fra.  Amen,  amen. 
Out  of  my  zeal  to  heaven,  whither  I'm  now  bound, 
I  was  so  impudent  to  wish  you  here ; 
And  once  more  beg  your  pardon.     O  !  good  man, 
And  father  to  my  children,  pardon  me. 
Pardon,  O  pardon  me  :  my  fault  so  heinous  is, 
That  if  you  in  this  world  forgive  it  not, 
Heaven  will  not  clear  it  in  the  world  to  come. 
Faintness  hath  so  usurp'd  upon  my  knees 
That  kneel  I  cannot  :  but  on  my  heart's  knees 
My  prostrate  soul  lies  thrown  down  at  your  feet 
To  beg  your  gracious  pardon.     Pardon,  O  pardon  me ! 

Fran.  As  freely  from  the  low  depth  of  my  soul 
As  my  Redeemer  hath  for  us  given  his  death, 
I  pardon  thee ;   I  will  shed  tears  for  thee  ; 
Pray  with  thee : 

And,  in  mere  pity  of  thy  weak  estate, 
I'll  wish  to  die  with  thee. 

All.  So  do  we  all. 

Fran.  Even  as  I  hope  for  pardon  at  that  day, 


106  ENGLISH  DRAMATIC  POETS. 

When  the  great  judge  of  heaven  in  scarlet  sits, 
So  he  thou  pardon'd.     Tho'  thy  rash  offence 
Divorc'd  our  bodies,  thy  repentant  tears 
Unite  our  souls. 

Char.  Then  comfort,  mistress  Frankford  ; 
You  see  your  husband  hath  forgiven  your  fall  ; 
Then  rouse  your  spirits,  and  cheer  your  fainting  soul. 

Susan.  How  is  it  with  you  ? 

Acton.  How  d'ye  feel  yourself? 

Mrs.  Fra.  Not  of  this  world. 

Fran.  I  see  you  are  not,  and  I  weep  to  see  it. 
My  wife,  the  mother  to  my  pretty  babes ; 
Both  those  lost  names  I  do  restore  thee  back, 
And  with  this  kiss  I  wed  thee  once  again  : 
Tho'  thou  art  wounded  in  thy  honor'd  name, 
And  with  that  grief  upon  thy  death-bed  liest ; 
Honest  in  heart,  upon  my  soul,  thou  diest. 

Mrs.  Fra.  Pardon'd  on  earth,  soul,  thou  in  heaven  art  free 
Once  more.     Thy  wife  dies  thus  embracing  thee. 

[Heywood  is  a  sort  of  prose  Shakspeare.  His  scenes  are  to  the  full  as 
natural  and  affecting.  But  we  miss  the  Poet,  that  which  in  Shakspeare 
always  appears  out  and  above  the  surface  of  the  nature.  Heywood's  char- 
acters, his  Country  Gentlemen,  &c,  are  exactly  what  we  see  (but  of  the 
best  kind  of  what  we  see)  in  life.  Shakspeare  makes  us  believe,  while  we 
are  among  his  lovely  creations,  that  they  are  nothing  but  what  we  are 
familiar  with,  as  in  dreams  new  things  seem  old :  but  we  awake,  and  sigh 
for  the  difference.] 


THE  ENGLISH  TRAVELLER.     BY  THOMAS  HEYWOOD. 

Young  Geraldinc  comes  home  from  his  Travels,  and  finds  his  Playfellow, 
that  shottld  have  been  his  Wife,  married  to  old  Wincott.  The  old  Gen- 
tleman receives  him  hospitably,  as  a  Friend  of  his  Father's:  takes 
delight  to  hear  him  tell  of  his  Travels,  and  treats  him  in  all  respects 
like  a  second  Father ;  his  house  being  always  open  to  him.  Youn" 
Geraldine  and  the  Wife  agree  not  to  wrong  the  old  Gentleman. 

Wife.     Geraldine. 

Ger.  We  now  are  left  alone. 

Wife.  Why,  say  we  be  ;  who  should  be  jealous  of  us  ? 


THE  ENGLISH  TRAVELLER.  107 


This  is  not  first  of  many  hundred  nights, 
That  we  two  have  been  private,  from  the  first 
Of  our  acquaintance  ;  when  our  tongues  but  dipt 
Our  mother's  tongue,  and  could  not  speak  it  plain, 
We  knew  each  other  :  as  in  stature,  so 
Increast  our  sweet  society.     Since  your  travel, 
And  my  late  marriage,  through  my  husband's  love, 
Mid-night  has  been  as  mid-day,  and  my  bed-chamber 
As  free  to  you,  as  your  own  father's  house, 
And  you  as  welcome  to  it. 

Ger.  I  must  confess, 
It  is  in  you,  your  noble  courtesy ; 
In  him,  a  more  than  common  confidence, 
And,  in  his  age,  can  scarce  find  precedent. 

Wife.  Most  true  :  it  is  withal  an  argument, 
That  both  our  virtues  are  so  deep  imprest 
In  his  good  thoughts,  he  knows  we  cannot  err. 

Ger.  A  villain  were  he,  to  deceive  such  trust, 
Or  (were  there  one)  a  much  worse  character. 

Wife.  And  she  no  less,  whom  either  beauty,  youth, 
Time,  place,  or  opportunity  could  tempt 
To  injure  such  a  husband. 

Ger.  You  deserve, 
Even  for  his  sake,  to  be  for  ever  young  ; 
And  he,  for  yours,  to  have  his  youth  renew'd  : 
So  mutual  is  your  true  conjugal  love. 
Yet  had  the  fates  so  pleas'd — 

Wife.   I  know  your  meaning. 
It  was  once  voic'd,  that  we  two  should  have  matcht , 
The  world  so  thought  and  many  tongues  so  spake  ; 
But  heaven  hath  now  dispos'd  us  other  ways  : 
And  being  as  it  is  (a  thing  in  me 
Which  I  protest  was  never  wisht  nor  sought) 
Now  done,  I  not  repent  it. 

Ger.   In  those  times 
Of  all  the  treasures  of  my  hopes  and  love 
You  were  th'  Exchequer,  they  were  stored  in  you  ; 
And  had  not  my  unfortunate  Travel  crost  them, 


108  ENGLISH  DRAMATIC  POETS. 

They  had  been  here  reserv'd  still. 

Wife.  Troth  they  had, 
I  should  have  been  your  trusty  Treasurer. 

Ger.  However,  let  us  love  still,  I  entreat ; 
That,  neighborhood  and  breeding  will  allow  ; 
So  much,  the  laws  divine  and  humble  both 
Twixt  brother  and  a  sister  will  approve  : 
Heaven  then  forbid  that  they  should  limit  us 
Wish  well  to  one  another. 

Wife.  If  they  should  not, 
We  might  proclaim  they  were  not  charitable, 
Which  were  a  deadly  sin  but  to  conceive. 

Ger.  Will  you  resolve  me  one  thing  ? 

Wife.  As  to  one, 
That  in  my  bosom  hath  a  second  place, 
Next  my  dear  husband. 

Ger.  That's  the  thing  I  crave, 
And  only  that ;  to  have  a  place  next  him. 

Wife.  Presume  on  that  already,  but  perhaps 
You  mean  to  stretch  it  further. 

Ger.  Only  thus  far  : 
Your  husband's  old  ;  to  whom  my  soul  does  wish 
A  Nestor's  age,  so  much  he  merits  from  me  ; 
Yet  if  (as  proof  and  nature  daily  teach, 
Men  cannot  always  live,  especially 
Such  as  are  old  and  crazed)  he  be  called  hence, 
Fairly,  in  full  maturity  of  time, 
And  we  two  be  reserv'd  to  after  life ; 
Will  you  confer  your  widow-hood  on  me  ? 

Wife.  You  ask  the  thing  1  was  about  to  beg ; 
Your  tongue  hath  spoke  mine  own  thoughts. 

Ger.  'Tis  enough,  that  word 
Alone  instates  me  happy  :  now,  so  please  you, 
We  will  divide ;  you  to  your  private  chamber, 
I  to  find  out  my  friend. 

Wife.  You  are  now  my  brother  ; 
But  then,  my  second  husband.  '[They  part. 


THE  ENGLISH  TRAVELLER.  109 

Young  Geraldine  absents  himself  from  the  house  of  Mr.  Wincott  longet 
than  is  usual  to  him  The  old  Gentleman  sends  for  him,  to  find  out  the 
reason.     He  pleads  his  Father's  commands. 

Wincott.     Geraldine. 

Ger.  With  due  acknowledgment 
Of  all  your  more  than  many  courtesies  : 
You  have  been  my  second  father,  and  your  wife 
My  noble  and  chaste  mistress ;  all  your  servants 
At  my  command  ;  and  this  your  bounteous  table 
As  free  and  common  as  my  father's  house : 
Neither  'gainst  any  or  the  least  of  these 
Can  I  commence  this  quarrel. 

Win.  What  might  then  be 
The  cause  of  this  constraint,  in  thus  absenting 
Yourself  from  such  as  love  you  ? 

Ger.  Out  of  many, 
I  will  propose  some  few :  the  care  I  have 
Of  your  (as  yet  unblemished)  renown  ; 
The  untoucht  honor  of  your  virtuous  wife  ; 
And  (which  I  value  least,  yet  dearly  too) 
My  own  fair  reputation. 

Win.  How  can  these 
In  any  way  be  question'd  ? 

Ger.  Oh,  dear  sir, 
Bad  tongues  have  been  too  busy  with  us  all ; 
Of  which  I  never  yet  had  time  to  think, 
But  with  sad  thoughts  and  griefs  unspeakable. 
It  hath  been  whisper'd  by  some  wicked  ones, 
But  loudly  thunder'd  in  my  father's  ears, 
By  some  that  have  maligned  our  happiness 
(Heaven,  if  it  can  brook  slander,  pardon  them), 
That  this  my  customary  coming  hither, 
lath  been  to  base  and  sordid  purposes ; 
To  wrong  your  bed,  injure  her  chastity, 
And  be  mine  own  undoer :  which,  how  false — 

Win.  As  heaven  is  true,  I  know  it. — 

Ger.  Now  this  calumnv 


110  ENGLISH  DRAMATIC  POETS. 


Arriving  first  unlo  my  father's  ears, 

His  easy  nature  was  induced  to  think 

That  these  things  might  perhaps  he  possible : 

I  ansvver'd  him,  as  I  would  do  to  heaven, 

And  clear'd  myself  in  his  suspicious  thoughts 

As  truly,  as  the  high  all-knowing  judge 

Shall  of  these  stains  acquit  me  ;  which  are  merely 

Aspersions  and  untruths.     The  good  old  man 

Possessed  with  my  sincerity,  and  yet  careful 

Of  your  renown,  her  honor,  and  my  fame, 

To  stop  the  worst  that  scandal  could  inflict 

And  to  prevent  false  rumors,  charges  me 

The  cause  remov'd,  to  take  away  th'  effect ; 

Which  only  could  be,  to  forbear  your  house : 

And  this  upon  his  blessing.     You  hear  all. 

Win.  And  I  of  all  acquit  you  :  this  your  absence, 
With  which  my  love  most  cavill'd,  orators 
In  your  behalf.     Had  such  things  pass'd  betwixt  you, 
Not  threats  nor  chidings  could  have  driv'n  you  hence ; 
It  pleads  in  your  behalf,  and  speaks  in  her's ; 
And  arms  me  with  a  double  confidence 
Both  of  your  friendship  and  her  loyalty. 
I  am  happy  in  you  both,  and  only  doubtful 
Which  of  you  two  doth  most  impart  my  love. 
You  shall  not  hence  to-night. 

Ger.  Pray,  pardon,  sir. 

Win.  You  are  in  your  lodging. 

Ger.   But  my  father's  charge'. 

Win.  My  conjuration  shall  dispense  with  that; 
You  may  be  up  as  early  as  you  please, 
But  hence  to-night  you  shall  not. 

Ger.  You  are  powerful. 

Traveller' s  Stories. 
Sir,  my  husband 
Hath  took  much  pleasure  in  your  strange  discourse 
About  Jerusalem  and  the  Holy  Land  ; 
How  the  new  city  differs  from  the  old  ; 


THE  ENGLISH  TRAVELLER.  ill 

What  ruins  of  the  Temple  yet  remain  ; 
And  whether  Sion,  and  those  hills  about, 
With  these  adjacent  towns  and  villages, 
Keep  that  proportioned  distance  as  we  read : 
And  then  in  Rome,  of  that  great  Pyramis 
Rear'd  in  the  front,  on  four  lions  mounted ; 
How  many  of  those  Idol  temples  stand, 
First  dedicated  to  their  heathen  gods, 
Which  ruin'd,  which  to  better  use  repair'd  ; 
Of  their  Pantheon,  and  their  Capitol ; 
What  structures  are  demolish'd,  what  remain. 

And  what  more  pleasure  to  an  old  man's  ear, 

That  never  drew  save  his  own  country's  air, 
Than  hear  such  things  related  ? 

Shipwreck  by  Drink. 

This  Gentleman  and  I 
Passt  but  just  now  by  your  next  neighbor's  house, 
Where,  as  they  say,  dwells  one  young  Lionel, 
An  unthrift  youth  :  his  father  now  at  sea. 

There  this  night 

Was  a  great  feast. 

In  the  height  of  their  carousing,  all  their  brains 

Warm'd  with  the  heat  of  wine,  discourse  was  offer'd 

Of  ships  and  storms  at  sea  :   when  suddenly, 

Out  of  his  giddy  wildness,  one  conceives 

The  room  wherein  they  quaff  ?d  to  be  a  Pinnace, 

Moving  and  floating,  and  the  confus'd  noise 

To  be  the  murmuring  winds,  gusts,  mariners ; 

That  their  unsteadfast  footing  did  proceed 

From  rocking  of  the  vessel  :  this  conceiv'd, 

Each  one  begins  to  apprehend  the  danger, 

And  to  look  out  for  safety.     Fly,  saith  one, 

Up  to  the  main  top,  and  discover.     He 

Climb:;  up  the  bed-post  to  the  tester  there, 

Reports  a  turbulent  sea  and  tempest  towards  ; 

And  wills  them,  if  they'll  save  their  ship  and  lives, 

To  cast  their  lading  over-board.     At  this 


112  ENGLISH  DRAMATIC  POETS. 


All  fall  to  work,  and  hoist  into  the  street, 

As  to  the  sea,  what  next  came  to  their  hand, 

Stools,  tables,  tressels,  trenchers,  bed-steds,  cups, 

Pots,  plate,  and  glasses.     Here  a  fellow  whistles ; 

They  take  him  for  the  boatswain :  one  lies  struggling 

Upon  the  floor,  as  if  he  swam  for  life  : 

A  third  takes  the  base-viol  for  the  cock-boat, 

Sits  in  the  belly  on't,  labors,  and  rows  ; 

His  oar,  the  stick  with  which  the  fiddler  played : 

A  fourth  bestrides  his  fellow,  thinking  to  scape 

(As  did  Arion)  on  the  dolphin's  back, 

Still  fumbling  on  a-  gittern. The  rude  multitude, 

Watching  without,  and  gaping  for  the  spoil 

Cast  from  the  windows,  went  by  th'  ears  about  it ; 

The  Constable  is  call'd  to  atone  the  broil ; 

Which  done,  and  hearing  such  a  noise  within 

Of  eminent  ship-wreck,  enters  th'  house,  and  finds  them 

In  this  confusion :  they  adore  his  Staff, 

And  think  it  Neptune's  Trident ;  and  that  he 

Comes  with  his  Tritons  (so  they  call'd  his  watch) 

To  calm  the  tempest  and  appease  the  waves  : 

\nd  at  this  point  we  left  them. 

[This  piece  of  pleasant  exaggeration  (which,  for  its  life  and  humor,  might 
have  been  told  or  acted  by  Petruchio  himself,)  gave  rise  to  the  title  of 
Cowley's  Latin  Play,  Naufragium  Joculare,  and  furnished  the  idea  of  the 
best  scene  in  it.  Heywood's  Preface  to  this  Play  is  interesting,  as  it  shows 
the  heroic  indifference  about  posterity,  which  some  of  these  great  writers 
seem  to  have  felt.  There  is  a  magnanimity  in  Authorship  as  in  everything 
else. 

"  If  Reader  thou  hast  of  this  play  been  an  Auditor,  there  is  less  apology 
to  be  used  by  entreating  thy  patience.  This  Tragi-comedy  (being  one  re- 
served amongst  220  in  which  I  had  either  an  entire  hand,  or  at  the  least  a 
main  finger)  coming  accidentally  to  the  press,  and  I  having  intelligence 
thereof,  thought  it  not  fit  that  it  should  pass  as  Alius  populi,  a  Bastard  with- 
out a  father  to  acknowledge  it :  true  it  is  that  my  plays  are  not  exposed  to 
the  world  in  volumes,  to  bear  the  title  of  works  (as  others*)  :  one  reason 
is,  that  many  of  them,  by  shifting  and  change  of  companies,  have  been  neg- 
ligently lost.  Others  of  them  are  still  retained  in  the  hands  of  some 
actors,  who  think  it  against  their  peculiar  profit  to  have  them  come  in  print, 

*  He  seems  to  glance  at  Ben  Jonson. 


THE  LATE  LANCASHIRE  WITCHES.  113 

and  a  third  that  it  never  was  any  great  ambition  in  ine  to  be  in  this  kind 
voluminously  read.  All  that  I  have  further  to  say  at  this  time  is  only  this  : 
censure  I  entreat  as  favorably  as  it  is  exposed  to  thy  view  freely. 

"  Ever 
"  Studious  of  thy  Pleasure  and  Profit, 

"  Th.  Heywood." 
Of  the  220  pieces  which  he  here  speaks  of  having  been  concerned  in, 
only  25,  as  enumerated  by  Dodsley,  have  come  down  to  us,  for  the  reasons 
assigned  in  the  preface.  The  rest  have  perished,  exposed  to  the  casualties 
of  a  theatre.  Heywood's  ambition  seems  to  have  been  confined  to  the  plea- 
sure of  hearing  the  Players  speak  his  lines  while  he  lived.  It  does  not 
appear  that  he  ever  contemplated  the  possibility  of  being  read  by  after  ages. 
What  a  slender  pittance  of  fame  was  motive  sufficient  to  the  production  of 
such  Plays  as  the  English  Traveller,  the  Challenge  for  Beauty,  and  the 
Woman  Killed  with  Kindness  !  Posterity  is  bound  to  take  care  that  a 
Writer  loses  nothing  by  such  a  noble  modesty.] 

> - 


T 


THE  LATE  LANCASHIRE  WITCHES  :  A  COMEDY.    BY  THOMAS 
HEYWOOD  AND  RICHARD  BROOME. 

Mr.  Generous,  by  taking  off  a  Bridle  from  a  seeming  Horse  in  his  Sta- 
ble, discovers  it  to  be  his  Wife,  who  has  transformed  herself  by  Magical 
Practices,  and  is  a  Witch. 

Mr.  Generous.     Wife.     Robin,  a  groom. 

Gen.  My  blood  is  turned  to  ice,  and  all  my  vitals 
Have  ceas'd  their  working.     Dull  stupidity 
Surpriseth  me  at  once,  and  hath  arrested 
That  vigorous  agitation,  which  till  now 
Exprest  a  life  within  me.     I.  methinks, 
Am  a  meer  marble  statue,  and  no  man. 
Unweave  my  age,  O  time,  to  my  first  thread  ; 
Let  me  lose  fifty  years,  in  ignorance  spent-. 
That,  being  made  an  infant  once  again, 
I  may  begin  to  know.      What,  or  where  am  I, 
To  be  thus  lost  in  wonder  ? 

Wife.  Sir. 

Gen.  Amazement  still  pursues  me,  how  am  I  chang'd, 
Or  brought  ere  I  can  understand  myself 
Into  this  new  world  ! 
part  i.  9 


114  ENGLISH  DRAMATIC  POETS. 


Rob.  You  will  believe  no  witches? 

Gen.  This  makes  me  believe  all,  aye,  anything ;_ 
And  that  myself  am  nothing.     Prithee,  Robin, 
Lay  me  to  myself  open  ;  what  art  thou, 
Or  this  new  transform'd  creature  ? 

Rob.  I  am  Robin  ; 
And  this  your  wife,  my  mistress. 

Gen.  Tell  me,  the  earth 
Shall  leave  its  seat,  and  mount  to  kiss  the  moon ; 
Or  that  the  moon,  enamor'd  of  the  earth, 
Shall  leave  her  sphere,  to  stoop  to  us  thus  low. 
What,  what's  this  in  my  hand,  that  at  an  instant 
Can  from  a  four-legg'd  creature  make  a  thing 
So  like  a  wife  ? 

Rob.   A  bridle  ;  a  juggling  bridle,  Sir. 

Gen.  A  bridle  !  Hence,  enchantment. 
A  viper  were  more  safe  within  my  hand, 
Than  this  charm'd  engine. — 
A  witch !  my  wife  a  witch  ! 
The  more  I  strive  to  unwind 
Myself  from  this  meander,  I  the  more 
Therein  am  intricated.     Prithee,  woman, 
Art  thou  a  witch  ? 

Wife.  It  cannot  be  denied, 
I  am  such  a  curst  creature. 

Gen.   Keep  aloof: 
And  do  not  come  too  near  me.     O  my  trust ; 
Have  I,  since  first  I  understood  myself, 
Been  of  my  soul  so  chary,  still  to  study 
What  best  was  for  its  health,  to  renounce  all 
The  works  of  that  black  fiend  with  my  best  force  ; 
And  hath  that  se-rpent  twined  me  so  about, 
That  I  must  lie  so  often  and  so  long 
With  a  devil  in  my  bosom  ? 

Wife.  Pardon,  Sir.  [She  looks  down.] 

Gen.  Pardon  !  can  such  a  thing  as  that  be  hoped  ? 
Lift  up  thine  eyes,  lost  woman,  to  yon  hills  ; 
It  must  be  thence  expected  :  look  not  down 


THE  LATE  LANCASHIRE  WITCHES.  115 


Unto  that  horrid  dwelling,  which  thou  hast  sought 
At  such  dear  rate  to  purchase.     Prithee,  tell  me 
(For  now  I  can  believe)  art  thou  a  witch  ? 

Wife.  I  am. 

Gen.  With  that  word  I  am  thunderstruck, 
And  know  not  what  to  answer ;  yet  resolve  me, 
Hast  thou  made  any  contract  with  that  fiend, 
The  enemy  of  mankind  ? 

Wife.  O  I  have. 

Gen.  What  ?  and  how  far  ? 

Wife.  I  have  promis'd  him  my  soul. 

Gen.  Ten  thousand  times  better  thy  body  had 
Been  promis'd  to  the  stake ;  aye,  and  mine  too, 
To  have  suffer'd  with  thee  in  a  hedge  of  flames, 

Than  such  a  compact  ever  had  been  made.     Oh 

Resolve  me,  how  far  doth  that  contract  stretch  ? 

Wife.  What  interest  in  this  Soul  myself  could  claim, 
I  freely  gave  him  ;  but  his  part  that  made  it 
I  still  reserve,  not  being  mine  to  give. 

Gen.  O  cunning  devil :  foolish  woman,  know, 
Where  he  can  claim  but  the  least  little  part, 
He  will  usurp  the  whole.     Thou'rt  a  lost  woman. 

Wife.  I  hope  not  so. 

Gen.   Why,  hast  thou  any  hope  ? 

Wife.  Yes,  sir,  I  have. 

Gen.  Make  it  appear  to  me. 

Wife.  I  hope  I  never  bargain'd  for  that  fire, 
Further  than  penitent  tears  have  power  to  quench. 

Gen.  I  would  see  some  of  them. 

Wife.  You  behold  them  now 
(If  you  look  on  me  with  charitable  eyes) 
Tinctur'd  in  blood,  blood  issuing  from  the  heart. 
Sir,  I  am  sorry  ;  when  I  look  towards  heaven, 
I  beg  a  gracious  pardon  ;  when  on  you, 
Methinks  your  native  goodness  should  not  be 
Less  pitiful  than  they  ;   'gainst  both  I  have  err'd ; 
From  both  I  beg  atonement. 

Gen.  May  I  presume  't  ? 


116  ENGLISH  DRAMATIC  POETS. 


Wife.  I  kneel  to  both  your  mercies. 

Gen.  Knowest  thou  what 
A  witch  is  1 

Wife.  Alas,  none  better  ; 
Or  after  mature  recollection  can  be 
More  sad  to  think  on't. 

Gen.  Tell  me,  are  those  tears 
As  full  of  true  hearted  penitence, 
As  mine  of  sorrow  to  behold  what  state, 
What  desperate  state,  thou'rt  fain  in  ? 

Wife.  Sir,  they  are. 

Gen.  Rise  ;  and,  as  I  do  you,  so  heaven  pardon  me  ; 
We  all  offend,  but  from  such  falling  off 
Defend  us  !     Well,  I  do  remember,  wife, 
When  I  first  took  thee,  'twas  for  good  and  bad  : 
O  change  thy  bad  to  good,  that  I  may  keep  thee 
(As  then  we  past  our  faiths)  'till  Death  us  sever. 

0  woman,  thou  hast  need  to  weep  thyself 
Into  a  fountain,  such  a  penitent  spring 

As  may  have  power  to  quench  invisible  flames  ; 
In  which  my  eyes  shall  aid:  too  little,  all.* 

Frank  Hospitality. 

Gentlemen,  welcome  ;  'tis  a  word  I  use  ; 
From  me  expect  no  further  compliment ; 
Nor  do  I  name  it  often  at  one  meeting  ; 
Once  spoke,  to  those  that  understand  me  best, 
And  know  I  always  purpose  as  I  speak, 
Hath  ever  yet  sufficed :  so  let  it  you. 
Nor  do  I  love  that  common  phrase  of  guests, 
As,  we  make  bold,  or,  we  are  troublesome, 
We  take  you  unprovided,  and  the  like  ; 

1  know  you  understanding  Gentlemen, 

And  knowing  me,  cannot  persuade  yourselves 

With  me  you  shall  be  troublesome  or  bold. 

Nor  shall  you  find 

*  Compare  this  with  a  story  in  the  Arabian  Nights,  where  a  man  discor 
ers  his  wife  to  be  a  goul. 


A   FAIR  QUARREL.  117 


Being  set  to  meat,  that  I  '11  excuse  your  fare, 
Or  say,  I  am  sorry  it  falls  out  so  poor, 
And,  had  I  known  your  coming,  we  'd  have  had 
Such  things  and  such  ;  nor  blame  my  Cook,  to  say 
This  dish  or  that  hath  not  been  sauc't  with  care : 
Words  fitting  best  a  common  hostess'  mouth, 
When  there's  perhaps  some  just  cause  of  dislike ; 
But  not  the  table  of  a  Gentleman. 


A  FAIR  QUARREL:    A  COMEDY.     BY  THOMAS  MIDDLETON 
AND  WILLIAM  ROWLEY. 

Captain  .iger,  in  a  dispute  with  a  Colonel  his  friend,  receives  from 
the  Colonel  the  appellation  of  Son  of  a  Whore.  A  challenge  is  given 
and  accepted :  but  the  Captain,  before  he  goes  to  the  field,  is  willing  to 
be  confirmed  of  his  mother's  honor  from  her  own  lips.  Lady  Ager 
being  question  til  by  her  Sun.  to  prevent  a  duel,  falsely  slanders  herself 
of  unchastity.  The  Captain,  thinking  that  he  has  a  bad  cause, 
refuses  to  fight.  But  being  reproached  by  the  Colonel  with  cowardice, 
he  esteems  that  he  has  now  sufficient  cause  for  a  quarrel,  in  the  vindi- 
cating of  his  honor  from  that  aspersion  ;  and  draws,  and  disarms  his 
opponent. 

Lady.     Captain,  her  Son. 

La.  Where  left  you  your  dear  friend  the  Colonel  ? 

Cap.  Oh  the  dear  Colonel,  I  should  meet  him  soon. 

La.  Oh  fail  him  not  then,  he  's  a  Gentleman 
The  fame  and  reputation  of  your  time 
Is  much  engag'd  to. 

Cap.  Yes,  and  you  knew  all,  mother, 

La.  I  thought  I  'd  known  so  much  of  his  fair  goodness, 
More  could  not  have  been  look'd  for. 

Cap.   O  yes,  yes,  Madam  : 
And  this  his  last  exceeded  all  the  rest. 

La.  For  gratitude's  sake  let  me  know  this  I  prithee. 

Cap.  Then  thus  ;  and  1  desire  your  censure  freely, 
Whether  it  appear'd  not  a  strange  noble  kindness  in  him. 

La.    Trust  me,  I  long  to  hear't. 


118  ENGLISH  DRAMATIC  POETS. 

Cap.  You  know  he's  hasty  ; 
That  by  the  way. 

La.  So  are  the  best  conditions  : 
Your  father  was  the  like. 

Cap.   I  begin  now 
To  doubt  me  more  :  why  am  not  I  so  too  then  1 
Blood  follows  blood  through  forty  generations  ; 
And  I  've  a  slow-pac'd  wrath  :  a  shrewd  dilemma. —     [Aside. 

La.  Well,  as  you  were  saying,  Sir. 

Cap.  Marry,  thus,  good  Madam. 

There  was  in  company  a  foul-mouth'd  villain . 

Stay,  stay 

fho  should  I  liken  him  to  that  you  have  seen  ? 
e  comes  so  near  one  that  I  would  not  match  him  with, 
Faith,  just  o'  the  Colonel's  pitch  ;  he's  never  the  worse  man  ; 
Usurers  have  been  compar'd  to  magistrates, 
Extortioners  to  lawyers,  and  the  like, 
But  they  all  prove  ne'er  the  worse  men  for  that. 

La.  That's  bad  enough,  they  need  not. 

Cap.  This  rude  fellow, 
A  shame  to  all  humanity  and  manners, 
Breathes  from  the  rottenness  of  his  gall  and  malice, 
The  foulest  stain  that  ever  man's  fame  blemish'd, 
Part  of  which  fell  upon  your  honor,  madam, 
Which  heighten'd  my  affliction. 

La.  Mine,  my  honor,  Sir  ? 

Cap.  The  Colonel  soon  enrag'd  (as  he's  all  touchwood) 
Takes  fire  before  me,  makes  the  quarrel  his, 
Appoints  the  field  ;  my  wrath  could  not  be  heard, 
His  was  so  high  picht,  so  gloriously  mounted. 
Now  what's  the  friendly  fear  that  fights  within  me, 
Should  his  brave  noble  fury  undertake 
A  cause  that  were  unjust  in  our  defence, 
And  so  to  lose  him  everlastingly, 
In  that  dark  depth  where  all  bad  quarrels  sink 
Never  to  rise  again,  what  pity  'twere, 
First  to  die  here,  and  never  to  die  there  ? 

La.  Why  what's  the  quarrel,  speak,  Sir,  that  should  rise 


A  FAIR  QUARREL.  119 


Such  fearful  doubt,  my  honor  bearing  part  on  't  ? 
The  words,  whate'er  they  were 

Cap.   Son  of  a  whore. 

La.  Thou  liest : 
And  were  my  love  ten  thousand  times  more  to  thee, 
Which  is  as  much  now  as  e'er  mother's  was, 
So  thou  shouldst  feel  my  anger.     Dost  thou  call 
That  quarrel  doubtful  ?  where  are  all  my  merits  ?  [Strikes  him. 
Not  one  stand  up  to  tell  this  man  his  error  ? 
Thou  might'st  as  well  call  the  Sun's  truth  in  question, 
As  thy  birth  or  my  honor. 

Cap.  Now  blessings  crown  you  for  't ; 
It  is  the  joyfull'st  blow  that  e'er  flesh  felt. 

La.  Nay,  stay,  stay,  Sir  ;  thou  art  not  left  so  soon  : 
This  is  no  question  to  be  slighted  off, 
And  at  your  pleasure  closed  up  fair  again. 
As  though  you'd  never  touch'd  it,  no  ;   honor  doubted, 
Is  honor  deeply  wounded  ;  and  it  rages 
More  than  a  common  smart,  being  of  thy  making. 
For  thee  to  fear  my  truth  it  kills  my  comfort. 
Where  should  fame  seek  for  her  reward,  when  he 
That  is  her  own  by  the  great  tye  of  blood 
Is  farthest,  off  in  bounty  :  O  poor  Goodness, 
That  only  pay'st  thyself  with  thy  own  works  ; 
For  nothing  else  looks  towards  thee.     Tell  me,  pray, 
W'hich  of  my  loving  cares  dost  thou  requite 
With  this  vile  thought  ?  which  of  my  prayers  or  wishes  ? 
Many  thou  ow'st  me  for.     This  seven  year  hast  thou  known  me 
A  widow,  only  married  to  my  vow  ; 
That's  no  small  witness  of  my  faith  and  love 
To  him  that  in  life  was  thy  honor'd  father : 
And  live  I  now  to  know  that  good  mistrusted  ? 

Cap.  No,  it  shall  appear  that  my  grief  is  chearful ! 
For  never  was  a  mother's  reputation 
Noblier  defended  ;   'tis  my  joy  and  pride 
I  have  a  firmness  to  bestow  upon  it. 

La.  What  's  that  you  said,  Sir  ? 

Cap.   'Twere  too  bold  and  soon  yet 


120  ENGLISH  DRAMATIC  POETS. 


To  crave  forgiveness  of  you.     I  will  earn  it  first. 
Dead  or  alive  I  know  I  shall  enjoy  it. 

La.  What  ;s  all  this,  Sir  ? 

Cap.   My  joy  's  beyond  expression  : 
I  do  but  think  how  wretched  1  had  been, 
Were  this  another's  quarrel  and  not  mine. 

La.  Why,  is  it  your's  1 

Cap.  Mine  ?  think  me  not  so  miserable, 
Not  to  be  mine :  then  were  I  worse  than  abject, 
More  to  be  loath'd  than  vileness,  or  sin's  dunghill : 
Nor  did  I  fear  your  goodness,  faithful  Madam, 
But  came  with  greedy  joy  to  be  confirm'd  in  't, 
To  give  the  nobler  onset :  then  shines  valor, 
And  admiration  from  her  fix'd  sphere  draws, 
When  it  comes  burnish'd  with  a  righteous  cause  ; 
Without  which  I'm  ten  fathoms  under  coward, 
That  now  am  ten  degrees  above  a  man. 
Which  is  but  one  of  virtue's  easiest  wonders. 

La.  But  pray  stay  :  all  this  while  I  understand  you 
The  Colonel  was  the  man. 

Cap.  Yes,  he's  the  man, 
The  man  of  injury,  reproach,  and  slander, 
Which  I  must  turn  into  his  soul  again. 

La.  The  Colonel  do  't !  that  's  strange. 

Cap.  The  villain  did  it : 
That  's  not  so  strange.     Your  blessing,  and  your  leave — 

La.  Come,  come,  you  shall  not  go. 

Cap.  Not  go  1  were  death 
Sent  now  to  summon  me  to  my  eternity, 
I  'd  put  him  off  an  hour :  why,  the  whole  world, 
Has  not  chains  strong  enough  to  bind  me  from  it : 
The  strongest  is  my  Reverence  for  you, 
Which  if  you  force  upon  me  in  this  case, 
I  must  be  forced  to  break  it. 

La.  Stay,  I  say. 

Cap.  In  anything  command  me  but  in  this,  Madam. 

La.  'Las,  I  shall  lose  him.     You  will  hear  me  first  ? 

Cap.  At  my  return  I  will. 


A  FAIR  QUARREL  121 


La.  You  '11  never  hear  me  more  then. 

Cap.  How  ! 

La.  Come  back,  I  say  ! 
You  may  well  think  there  's  cause,  I  call  so  often. 

Cap.  Ha  !  cause  ?  what  cause  ? 

La.  So  much,  vou  must  not  so. 

Cap.   Must  not,  why  ? 

La.  I  know  a  reason  for  't; 
Which  I  could  wish  you  'd  yield  to,  and  not  know : 
If  not,  it  must  come  forth.     Faith,  do  not  know  ; 
And  yet  obey  my  will. 

Cap.   Why,  I  desire 
To  know  no  other  than  the  cause  I  have, 
Nor  should  you  wish  it.  if  you  take  your  injury; 
For  one  more  great  I  know  the  world  includes  not. 

La.  Yes ;  one  that  makes  this  nothing  : — yet  be  ruled, 
And  if  you  understand  not,  seek  no  farther. 

Cap.   I  must,  for  this  is  nothing. 

La.  Then  take  all ; 
And  if  amongst  it  you  receive  that  secret 
That  will  offend  you,  though  you  condemn  me, 
Yet  blame  yourself  a  little,  for  perhaps 
I  would  have  made  my  reputation  sound 
Upon  another's  hazard  with  less  pity  ; 
But  upon  yours  I  dare  not. 

Cap.  How  ? 

La.  I  dare  not : 
'Twas  your  own  seeking,  this. 

Cap.  If  you  mean  evilly, 
I  cannot  understand  you,  nor  for  all  the  riches 
This  life  has,  would  I. 

La.  Would  you  never  might ! 

Cap.   Why,  your  goodness,  that  I  joy  to  fight  for. 

La.  In  that  you  neither  right  your  joy  nor  me. 

Cap.   What  an  ill  orator  has  virtue  got  here  ! 
Why,  shall  I  dare  to  think  it  a  thing  possible, 
That  you  were  ever  false  ? 

Tm.  Oh,  fearfully  ; 


122  ENGLISH  DRAMATIC  POETS. 

As  much  as  you  come  to. 

Cap.  Oh  silence  cover  me  ; 
I  've  felt  a  deadlier  wound  than  man  can  give  me. 
False  ? 

La.  I  was  betray'd  to  a  most  sinful  hour 
By  a  corrupted  soul  I  put  in  trust  once, 
A  kinswoman. 

Cap.  Where  is  she  ?  let  me  pay  her. 

La.  Oh  dead  long  since. 

Cap.  Say  then,  she  has  all  her  wages. 
False  ?  do  not  say  't ;   for  honor's  goodness  do  not ; 
You  never  could  be  so  :  he  I  call'd  father 
Deserv'd  you  at  your  best ;  when  youth  and  merit 
Could  boast  at  highest  in  you,  you  'd  no  grace 
Or  virtue  that  he  match'd  not  ;  no  delight 
That  you  invented,  but  he  sent  it  crown'd 
To  your  full  wishing  soul. 

La.  That  heaps  my  guiltiness. 

Cap.  O  were  you  so  unhappy  to  be  false 
Both  to  yourself  and  me,  but  to  me  chiefly  ? 
What  a  day's  hope  is  here  lost,  and  with  it 
The  joys  of  a  just  cause  !     Had  you  but  thought 
On  such  a  noble  quarrel,  you  'd  ha'  died 
Ere  you  'd  ha'  yielded,  for  the  sin's  hate  first. 
Next  for  the  hate  of  this  hour's  cowardice. 
Curst  be  the  heat  that  lost  me  such  a  cause, 
A  work  that  I  was  made  for.     Quench,  my  spirit, 
And  out  with  honor's  flaming  lights  within  thee  : 
Be  dark  and  dead  to  all  respects  of  manhood ; 
I  never  shall  have  use  of  valor  more. 
Put  off  your  vow  for  shame  :  why  should  you  hoard  up 
Such  justice  for  a  barren  widowhood  ; 
That  was  so  injurious  to  the  faith  of  wedlock  ? 
I  should  be  dead  :  for  all  my  life's  work  's  ended. 
1  dare  not  fight  a  stroke  now,  nor  engage  [Exit  Lady. 

The  noble  resolution  of  mv  friends  ; 


A  FAIR  QUARREL.  123 


Enter  two  Friends  of  Captain  Ager's. 

That  were  more  vile.     They  're  here.     Kill  me,  my  shame. 
I  am  not  for  the  fellowship  of  honor. 

1.  Friend.  Captain,  fie,  come,  Sir :  we  've  been  seeking  for  you 
Very  late  to-day  ;  this  was  not  wont  to  be, 

Your  enemy  's  in  the  field. 

Cap.  Truth  enters  chearfully. 

2.  Friend.  Good  faith,  Sir,  you  've  a  royal  quarrel  on  't. 
Cap.  Yes,  in  some  other  country,  Spain  or  Italy, 

It  would  be  held  so. 

1.  Friend.  How  !  and  is  't  not  here  so  ? 

Cap.  'Tis  not  so  contumeliously  receiv'd 
In  these  parts,  and  you  mark  it. 

1.  Friend.  Not  in  these  ? 

Why  prithee  what  is  more,  or  can  be  ? 

Cap.  Yes  : 
That  ordinary  Commotioner  the  lye 
Is  father  of  most  quarrels  in  this  climate, 
And  held  here  capital,  and  you  go  to  that. 

2.  Friend.  But,  Sir,  I  hope  you  will  not  go  to  that, 
Or  change  your  own  for  it ;  son  of  a  whore  ! 

Why  there  's  the  lye  down  to  posterity  ; 
The  lye  to  birth,  the  lye  to  honesty. 
Why  would  you  cozen  yourself  so  and  beguile 
So  brave  a  cause,  Manhood's  best  masterpiece  ? 
Do  you  ever  hope  for  one  so  brave  again  ? 

Cap.  Consider  then  the  man,  the  Colonel, 
Exactly  worthy,  absolutely  noble, 
However  spleen  and  rage  abuses  him  : 
And  'tis  not  well  nor  manly  to  pursue 
A  man's  infirmity. 

1.  Friend.  O  miracle  ! 
So  hopeful  valiant  and  complete  a  Captain 
Possest  with  a  tame  devil :  come  out,  thou  spoilest 
The  most  improv'd  young  soldier  of  seven  kingdoms, 
Made  Captain  at  nineteen  ;   which  was  deserv'd 
The  year  before,  but  hono:  comes  behind  still : 


124  ENGLISH  DRAMATIC  POETS. 

Come  out,  I  say  :  this  was  not  wont  to  be, 
That  spirit  ne'er  stood  in  need  of  provocation, 
Nor  shall  it  now.     Away,  Sir. 

Cap.  Urge  me  not. 

1.  Friend.  By  Manhood's  reverend  honor  but  we  must. 

Cap    I  will  not  fight  a  stroke. 

1.  Friend.  O  blasphemy 
To  sacred  valor. 

Cap.  Lead  me  where  you  list. 

1.  Friend.  Pardon  this  traiterous  slumber,  clog'd  with  evils  : 
Give  Captains  rather  wives  than  such  tame  devils. 

The  Field. 
Enter  Captain  Ager  with  his  two  Friends. 
Cap.  Well,  your  wills  now. 

1.  Friend.  Our  wills?  our  loves,  our  duties 
To  honor'd  fortitude  :  what  wills  have  we 
But  our  desires  to  nobleness  and  merit, 
Valor's  advancement,  and  the  sacred  rectitude 
Due  to  a  valorous  cause  ? 

Cap.  Oh,  that 's  not  mine. 

2.  Friend.  War  has  his  Court  of  Justice,  that  's  the  field, 
Where  all  cases  of  Manhood  are  determined, 

And  your  case  is  no  mean  one. 

Cap.  True,  then  't  were  virtuous ; 
But  mine  is  in  extremes,  foul  and  unjust. 
Well,  now  ye  've  got  me  hither,  ye  are  as  far 
To  seek  in  your  desire  as  at  first  minute : 
For  by  the  strength  and  honor  of  a  vow 
I  will  not  lift  a  finger  in  this  quarrel. 

1.  Friend.  How  !  not  in  this  !  be  not  so  rash  a  sinner. 
Why,  Sir,  do  you  ever  hope  to  fight  again  then  ? 
Take  heed  on  't,  you  must  never  look  for  that. 
Why,  the  universal  stock  of  the  World's  injury 
Will  be  too  poor  to  find  a  quarrel  for  you. 
Give  up  your  right  and  title  to  desert,  Sir ; 
If  you  fail  virtue  here,  she  needs  you  not 
All  your  time  after ;   let  her  take  this  wrong, 


A  FAIR  QUARREL.  125 


And  never  presume  then  to  serve  her  more : 

Bid  farewell  to  the  integrity  of  Arms, 

And  let  that  honorable  name  of  soldier 

Fall  from  you  like  a  shiver'd  wreath  of  laurel, 

By  thunder  struck  from  a  desertless  forehead 

That  wears  another's  right  by  usurpation. 

Good  Captain,  do  not  wilfully  cast  away 

At  one  hour  all  the  fame  your  life  has  won. 

This  is  your  native  seat.     Here  you  should  seek 

Most  to  preserve  it ;  or  if  you  will  doat 

So  much  on  life,  poor  life,  which  in  respect 

Of  life  in  honor  is  but  death  and  darkness, 

That  you  will  prove  neglectful  of  yourself 

(Which  is  to  me  too  fearful  to  imagine) 

Yet  for  that  virtuous  Lady's  cause,  your  Mother, 

Her  reputation,  dear  to  nobleness, 

As  grace  to  penitence  ;  whose  fair  memory 

E'en  crowns  fame  in  your  issue ;   for  that  blessedness, 

Give  not  this  ill  place,  but  in  spite  of  hell 

And  all  her  base  fears  be  exactly  valiant. 

Cap.  Oh  !  oh  ! 

2.  Friend.  Why,  well  said  ;  there's  fair  hope  in  that. 
Another  such  a  one. 

Cap.  Came  they  in  thousands, 
'Tis  all  against  you. 

1.  Friend.  Then  poor  friendless  Merit, 
Heav'n  be  good  to  thee,  thy  Professor  leaves  thee. 

Enter  Colonel  and  his  two  friends. 
He  's  come  ;  do  you  but  draw  ;  we  '11  fight  it  for  you. 

Cap.  I  know  too  much  to  grant  that. 

1.  Friend.  O  dead  manhood! 
Had  ever  such  a  cause  so  faint  a  servant  ? 
Shame  brand  me  if  I  do  not  suffer  for  him. 

Col.  I  've  heard,  Sir,  you  've  been  guilty  of  much  boasting 
For  your  brave  earliness  at  such  a  meeting, 
You  've  lost  the  glory  of  that  way  this  morning : 
I  was  the  first  to-day. 


126  ENGLISH  DRAMATIC  POETS. 

Cap.  So  were  you  ever 
In  my  respect,  Sir. 

1.  Friend.  O  most  base  prseludium  ! 

Cap.  I  never  thought  on  victory  our  mistress 
With  greater  reverence  than  I  have  your  worth, 
Nor  ever  lov'd  her  better. 
Success  in  you  has  been  my  absolute  joy, 
And  when  I  've  wish'd  content  I  've  wish'd  your  friendship. 

Col.  I  come  not  hither,  Sir,  for  an  encomium. 
I  came  provided 

For  storms  and  tempests,  and  the  foulest  season 
That  ever  rage  let  forth,  or  blew  in  wildness 
From  the  incensed  prison  of  man's  blood. 

Cap.  Tis  otherwise  with  me  :  I  come  with  mildness, 
Peace,  constant  amity,  and  calm  forgiveness, 
The  weather  of  a  Christian  and  a  friend. 

1.  Friend.  Give  me  a  valiant  Turk,  though  not  worth  ten-pence. 

Cap.  Yet,  Sir,  the  world  will  judge  the  injury  mine, 
Insufferably  mine,  mine  beyond  injury, 
Thousands  have  made  a  less  wrong  reach  to  hell, 
Aye  and  rejoic'd  in  his  most  endless  vengeance 
(A  miserable  triumph  though  a  just  one) ; 
But  when  I  call  to  memory  our  long  friendship, 
Methinks  it  cannot  be  too  great  a  wrong 
That  then  I  should  not  pardon.     Why  should  Man 
For  a  poor  hasty  syllable  or  two 
(And  vented  only  in  forgetful  fury) 
Chain  all  the  hopes  and  riches  of  his  soul 
To  the  revenge  of  that  ?  die  lost  for  ever  ? 
For  he  that  makes  his  last  peace  with  his  Maker 
In  anger,  anger  is  his  peace  eternally  : 
He  must  expect  the  same  return  again, 
Whose  venture  is  deceitful.     Must  he  not,  Sir  1 

Col.  I  see  what  I  must  do,  fairly  put  up  again, 
For  here  '11  be  nothing  done,  I  perceive  that. 

Cap.  What  shall  be  done  in  such  a  worthless  business 
But  to  be  sorry  and  to  be  forgiven  ? 
You,  Sir,  to  bring  repentance;  and  I  pardon. 


A  FAIR  QUARREL.  127 

Col.  I  bring  repentance,  Sir  ? 

Cap.  If 't  be  too  much 
To  say,  repentance  ;  call  it  what  you  please,  Sir  ; 
Choose  your  own  word,  I  know  you  're  sorry  for  it, 
And  that  's  as  good. 

Col.  I  sorry  ?  by  fame's  honor,  I  am  wrong'd  : 
Do  you  seek  for  peace  and  draw  the  quarrel  larger  ? 

Cap.  Then  'tis  I  'm  sorry  that  I  thought  you  so. 

1.  Friend.  A  Captain  !  I  could  gnaw  his  title  off. 

Cap.   Nor  is  it  any  misbecoming  .virtue,  Sir, 
In  the  best  manliness,  to  repent  a  wrong  : 
Which  made  me  bold  with  you. 

1.  Friend.  I  could  cuff  his  head  off. 

2.  Friend.  Nay,  pish. 

Col.  So  once  again  take  thou  thy  peaceful  rest  then  ; 

[  To  his  sword. 
But  as  I  put  thee  up,  I  must  proclaim 
This  Captain  here,  both  to  his  friends  and  mine, 
That  only  came  to  see  fair  valor  righted, 
A  base  submissive  Coward  :  so  I  leave  him. 

Cap.  Oh,  heaven  has  pitied  my  excessive  patience, 
And  sent  me  a  Cause  :  now  I  have  a  Cause  : 
A  Coward  I  was  never. Come  you  back,  Sir. 

Col  How! 

Cap.  You  left  a  Coward  here. 

Col.  Yes,  Sir,  with  you. 

Cap.   'Tis  such  base  metal,  Sir,  't  will  not  be  taken, 
It  must  home  again  with  you. 

2.  Friend.  Should  this  be  true  now 

1 .  Friend.  Impossible  !     Coward  do  more  than  Bastard  ! 

Col.  I  prithee  mock  me  not,  take  heed  you  do  not, 
For  if  I  draw  once  more  I  shall  grow  terrible, 
And  rage  will  force  me  do  what  will  grieve  honor. 

Cap.   Ha,  ha,  ha. 

Col.  He  smiles,  dare  it  be  he  ?  what  think  ye,  Gentlemen  ? 
Your  judgments  ;  shall  I  not  be  cozen'd  in  him  1 
This  cannot  be  the  man  ;  why  he  was  bookish, 
Made  an  invective  lately  against  righting, 


128  ENGLISH  DRAMATIC  POETS. 

A  thing  in  truth  that  mov'd  a  little  with  me  ; 

Put  up  a  fouler  contumely  far 

Thau  thousand  Cowards  came  to,  and  grew  thankful. 

Cap.  Blessed  remembrance  in  time  of  need  ; 
I  'd  lost  my  honor  else. 

2.  Friend.  Do  you  note  his  joy  ? 

Cap.  I  never  felt  a  more  severe  necessity  : 
Then  came  thy  excellent  pity.     Not  yet  ready  ! 
Have  you  such  confidence  in  my  just  manhood 
That  you  dare  so  long  trust  me,  and  yet  tempt  me 
Beyond  the  toleration  of  man's  virtue  ? 
Why,  would  you  be  more  cruel  than  your  injury  ? 
Do  you  first  take  pride  to  wrong  me,  and  then  think  me 
Not  worth  your  fury  ?  do  not  use  me  so  : 
I  shall  deceive  you  then  :  Sir,  either  draw, 
And  that  not  slightingly,  but  with  the  care 
Of  your  best  preservation,  with  that  watchfulness 
As  you  'd  defend  yourself  from  circular  fire, 
Your  sin's  rage,  or  her  Lord  (this  will  require  it) 
Or  you  '11  be  too  soon  lost :  for  I  've  an  anger, 
Has  gather'd  mighty  strength  against  you  :  mighty, 
Yet  you  shall  find  it  honest  to  the  last, 
Noble  and  fair. 

Col.  I  '11  venture  it  once  again, 
And  if 't  be  but  as  true  as  it  is  wondrous 
I  shall  have  that  I  come  for.     Your  leave,  Gentlemen. 

[They  fight. 

1.  Friend.  If   he    should    do 't    indeed,   and  deceive    us  all 

now 

Stay,  by  this  hand  he  offers  ;  fights  i'faith ; 
Fights  :  by  this  light,  he  fights,  Sir. 

2.  Friend.  So  methinks,  Sir. 

1.  Friend.  An  absolute  Punto,  ha  ? 

2.  Friend.   'Twas  a  Passado,  Sir. 

1.  Friend.  Why,  let  it  pass,  and  'twas:  I  'm  sure  'twas  some- 

what. 
What 's  that  now  ? 

2.  Friend.  That 's  a  Punto. 


A  FAIR  QUARREL.  129 


1.   Friend.   O  go  to  then, 
I  knew  'twas  not  far  off:  What  a  world's  this  ! 
Is  Coward  a  more  stirring  meat  than  Bastard  ? 

ho  !  I  honor  thee  : 

'Tis  right  and  fair,  and  he  that  breathes  against  it, 
He  breathes  against  the  justice  of  a  man  ; 
And  man  to  cut  him  off,  'tis  no  injustice. 
Thanks,  thanks,  for  this  most  unexpected  nobleness. 

[The  Colonel  is  disarmed. 

Cap.  Truth  never  fails  her  servant,  Sir,  nor  leaves  him 
With  the  day's  shame  upon  him. 

1.  Friend.  Thou  'st  redeemed 
Thy  worth  to  the  same  height,  'twas  first  esteemed. 

[The  insipid  levelling  morality  to  which  the  modern  stage  is  tied  down 
would  not  admit  of  such  admirable  passions  as  these  scenes  are  filled  with. 
A  puritanical  obtuseness  of  sentiment,  a  stupid  infantile  goodness,  is  creep- 
ing among  us,  instead  of  the  vigorous  passions,  and  virtues  clad  in  flesh  and 
blood,  with  which  the  old  dramatists  present  us.  These  noble  and  liberal 
casuists  could  discern  in  the  differences,  the  quarrels,  the  animosities  of 
man,  a  beauty  and  truth  of  moral  feeling,  no  less  than  in  the  iterately  incul- 
cated duties  of  forgiveness  and  atonement.  With  us  all  is  hypocritical 
meekness.  A  reconciliation  scene  (let  the  occasion  be  never  so  absurd  or 
unnatural)  is  always  sure  of  applause.  Our  audiences  come  to  the  theatre 
to  be  complimented  on  their  goodness.  They  compare  notes  with  the  ami- 
able characters  in  the  play,  and  find  a  wonderful  similarity  of  disposition 
between  them.  We  have  a  common  stock  of  dramatic  morality  out  of 
which  a  writer  may  be  supplied  without  the  trouble  of  copying  it  from  ori- 
ginals within  his  own  breast.  To  know  the  boundaries  of  honor,  to  be  judi- 
ciously valiant,  to  have  a  temperance  which  shall  beget  a  smoothness  in  the 
angry  swellings  of  youth,  to  esteem  life  us  nothing  when  the  sacred  reputa- 
tion of  a  parent  is  to  be  defended,  yet  to  shake  and  tremble  under  a  pious 
cowardice  when  that  ark  of  an  honest  confidence  is  found  to  be  frail  and 
tottering,  to  feel  the  true  blows  of  a  real  disgrace  blunting  that  sword  which 
the  imaginary  strokes  of  a  supposed  false  imputation  had  put  so  keen  an 
edge  upon  but  lately :  to  do,  or  to  imagine  this  done  in  a  feigned  story,  asks 
something  more  of  a  moral  sense,  somewhat  a  greater  .lelicacy  of  percep- 
tion in  questions  of  right  and  wrong,  than  goes  to  the  writing  of  two  or 
three  hackneyed  sentences  about  the  laws  of  honor  us  opposed  to  the  laws 
of  the  land,  or  a  common-place  against  duelling.  Yet  such  things  would 
stand  a  writer  now  a  days  in  far  better  stead  than  Captain  Ager  and  his  con- 
scientious honor  ;  and  he  would  be  considered  as  a  far  better  teacher  of 
morality  than  old  Rowley  or  Middleton  if  they  were  living.] 
PART    T.  10 


130  ENGLISH  DRAMATIC  POETS. 

ALL'S  LOST  BY  LUST.     A  TRAGEDY.     BY  WILLIAM  ROWLEY. 

Roderigo,  King  of  Spain,  takes  the  opportunity  to  violate  the  Daughter 
of  Julianiis,  while  that  old  General  is  fighting  his  battles  against  the 
Moors.  Jacinta  seeks  her  Father  in  the  Camp,  at  the  moment  of 
Victory. 

Julianus.     Servant. 

Ser.  Sir,  here's  a  Woman  (forced  by  some  tide  of  sorrow) 
With  tears  intreats  your  pity,  and  to  see  you. 

Jul.  If  any  Soldier  has  done  violence  to  her, 
Beyond  our  military  discipline, 
Death  shall  divide  him  from  us :  fetch  her  in. 
I  have  myself  a  Daughter,  on  whose  face 
But  thinking,  I  must  needs  be  pitiful : 
And  when  I  ha'  told  my  conquest  to  my  King, 
My  poor  girl  then  shall  know,  how  for  her  sake 
I  did  one  pious  act : 

Servant  returns  with  Jacinta  veiled. 

Is  this  the  creature  ? 

Serv.  Yes,  my  Lord,  and  a  sad  one. 

Jul.  Leave  us.     A  sad  one  ! 
The  down-cast  look  calls  up  compassion  in  me, 
A  corse  going  to  the  grave  looks  not  more  deadly. 
Why  kneel'st  thou  ?  art  thou  wrong'd  by  any  Soldier  ? 
Rise :  for  this  honor  is  not  due  to  me. 
Hast  not  a  tongue  to  read  thy  sorro\ys  out  ? 
This  book  I  understand  not. 

Jacin.  O  my  dear  father! 

Jul.  Thy  father,  who  has  wrong'd  him  ? 

Jacin.  A  great  Commander. 

Jul.  Under  me  ? 

Jacin.  Above  you. 

Jul.  Above  me  !  who's  above  a  general  ? 
None  but  the  general  of  all  Spain's  armies ; 
And  that's  the  king,  king  Roderick :  he's  all  goodness, 
He  cannot  wrong  thy  father. 

Jacin.   What  was  Tarquin  ? 


ALL'S  LOST  BY  LUST.  131 

Jul.  A  king,  and  yet  a  ravisher. 
Jacin.  Such  a  sin 
Was  in  those  days  a  monster  ;  now  'tis  common. 
Jul.  Prithee  be  plain. 
Jacin.  Have  not  you,  Sir,  a  daughter  ? 
Jul.  If  I  have  not,  I  am  the  wretched'st  man 
That  this  day  lives  ;   for  all  the  wealth  I  have 
Lives  in  that  child. 

Jacin.  O  for  your  daughter's  sake  then  hear  my  woes. 
Jul.  Rise  then,  and  speak  'em. 
Jacin.   No,  let  me  kneel  still  : 
Such  a  resemblance  of  a  daughter's  duty 
Will  make  you  mindful  of  a  father's  love : 
For  such  my  injuries  must  exact  from  you, 
As  you  would  for  your  own. 

Jul.   And  so  they  do  ; 
For  whilst  I  see  thee  kneeling,  I  think  of  my  Jacinta. 

Jacin.  Say  your  Jacinta  then,  chaste  as  the  rose 
Coming  on  sweetly  in  the  springing  bud, 
And  ne'er  felt  heat,  to  spread  the  summer  sweet  ; 
But,  to  increase  and  multiply  it  more, 
Did  to  itself  keep  in  its  own  perfume  ; 
Say  that  some  rapine  hand  had  pluck'd  the  bloom,* 
Jacinta,  like  that  flower,  and  ravish'd  her, 
Defiling  her  white  lawn  of  chastity 
With  ugly  blacks  of  lust :  what  would  you  do  ? 

Jul.  O  'tis  too  hard  a  question  to  resolve, 
Without  a  solemn  council  held  within 
Of  man's  best  understanding  faculties  : 
There  must  be  love,  and  fatherhood,  and  grief, 
And  rage,  and  many  passions :  and  they  must  all 
Beget  a  thing  calPd  vengeance  :  but  they  must  sit  upon  't. 

Jacin.   Say  this  were  done  by  him  that  carried 
The  fairest  seeming  face  of  friendship  to  yourself. 
Jul.   We  should  fall  out. 

Jacin.   Would  you  in  such  a  case  respect  degrees  ? 
Jul.   1  know  not  that. 

*  "  Cropt  this  fair  Rose,"  &c.  —  Otway. 


132  ENGLISH  DRAMATIC  POETS. 

Jacin.  Say  he  were  noble. 

Jul.  Impossible  :  the  act's  ignoble.     The  Bee  can  breed 
No  poison,  though  it  suck  the  juice  of  hemlock. 

.In  in.  Say  a  king  should  do  it ;  were  the  act  less  done, 
By  the  greater  power  ?  does  majesty 
Extenuate  a  crime  ? 

Jul.   Augment  it  rather. 

Jacin.  Say  then  that  Roderick,  your  king  and  master, 
To  quit  the  honors  you  are  bringing  home, 
Had  ravish'd  your  Jacinta. 

Jul.    Who  has  sent 
A  Fury  in  this  foul-fair  shape  to  vex  me  ? 
I  ha'  seen  that  face  methinks  yet  know  it  not : 
How  darest  thou  speak  this  treason  'gainst  my  king  ? 
Durst  any  man  in  the  world  bring  me  this  lie, 
By  this,  he  had  been  in  hell  :   Roderick  a  Tarquin  ! 

Jacin.  Yes,  and  thy  daughter  (had  she  done  her  part) 
Should  be  the  second  Lucrece.     View  me  well : 
I  am  Jacinta. 

Jul.  Ha! 

Jacin.  The  king  my  ravisher. 

Jul.   The  king  thy  ravisher  !  oh,  unkingly  sound. 
He  dares  not  sure  ;  yet  in  thy  sullied  eyes 
I  read  a  tragic  story. 

Antonio,  Alonzo,  and  other  Officers,  enter. 

Jul.  O  noble  friends, 
Our  wars  are  ended,  are  they  not  ? 

All.  They  are,  Sir. 

Jul.  But  Spain  has  now  begun  a  civil  war, 
And  to  confound  me  only.     See  you  my  daughter  ? 
She  sounds  the  trumpet  which  dTaws  forth  my  sword 
To  be  revenged. 

Alon.   On  whom  ?  speak  loud  your  wrongs  ; 
Digest  your  choler  into  temperance  ; 
Give  your  considerate  thoughts  the  upper  hand 
In  your  hot  passions,  'twill  assuage  the  swelling 
Of  your  big  heart :  if  you  have  injuries  done  you, 


ALL'S  LOST  BY  LUST.  13o 

Revenge  them,  and  we  second  you. 
•/■    Jacin.  Father,  dear  father.  \ 

\     Jul.  Daughter,  dear  daughter. 

Jacin.  Why  do  you  kneel  to  me,  Sir ! 

Jul  To  ask  thee  pardon  that  I  did  beget  thee. 
I  brought  thee  to  a  shame,  stains  all  the  way 
'Twixt  earth  and  Acheron :  not  all  the  clouds 
(The  skies'  large  canopy)  could  they  drown  the  seas 
With  a  perpetual  inundation, 
Can  wash  it  ever  out :  leave  me,  I  pray.  [Falk  down. 

Alon.  His  fighting  passion  will  be  o'er  anon, 
And  all  will  be  at  peace. 

Ant.  Best  in  my  judgment 
We  wake  him  with  the  sight  of  his  won  honors. 
Call  up  the  army,  and  let  them  present 
His  prisoners  to  him  :  such  a  sight  as  that 
Will  brook  no  sorrow  near  it. 

Jul.  'Twas  a  good  doctor  that  prescrib'd  that  physic. 
I'll  be  your  patient.  Sir  ;  show  me  my  soldiers, 
And  my  new  honors  won  :  I  will  truly  weigh  them 
With  my  full  griefs,  they  may  perhaps  o'ercome. 

Alon.  Why  now  there's  hopes  of  his  recovery. 

Jul.  Jacinta,  welcome,  thou  art  my  child  still : 
No  forced  stain  of  lust  can  alienate 
Our  consanguinity. 

Jacin.  Dear  father, 
Recollect  your  noble  spirits  :  conquer  grief, 
The  manly  way  :  you  have  brave  foes  subdued, 
Then  let  no  female  passions  thus  o'erwhelm  you. 

Jul.  Mistake  me  not,  my  child,  I  am  not  mad, 
Nor  must  be  idle ;  for  it  were  more  fit 
(If  I  could  purchase  more)  I  had  more  wit, 
To  help  in  these  designs  :   I  am  gi-own  old  : 
Yet  I  have  found  more  strength  within  this  arm, 
Than  (without  proof)  I  durst  ha'  boasted  on. 
Roderick,  tliou  king  of  monsters,  couldst  thou  do  this, 
And  lor  thy  i   st  confine  me  from  the  court  ? 
There's  reason  ii.  thy  shame,  thou  shouldst  not  see  me. 


134  ENGLISH  DRAMATIC  POETS. 

Ha  !  they  come,  Jacinta,  they  come,  hark,  hark  ; 
Now  thou  shalt  see  what  cause  I  have  given  my  king. 

Vanquished  Moors''  address  to  the  Sun. 

Descend  thy  sphere,  thou  burning  Deity. 
Haste  from  our  shame,  go  blushing  to  thy  bed ; 
Thy  sons*  we  are,  thou  everlasting  Ball, 
Yet  never  shamed  these  our  impressive  brows 
Till  now  :   we  that  are  stampt  with  thine  own  seal, 
Which  the  whole  ocean  cannot  wash  away, 
Shall  those  cold  ague  cheeks  that  Nature  moulds 
Within  her  winter  shop,  those  smooth  white  skins, 
That  with  a  palsy  hand  she  paints  the  limbs, 
Make  us  recoil  ? 

Marts  Heart. 
I  Mould  fain  know  what  kind  thing  a  man's  heart  is. 

were  you  never 

At  Barber  Surgeons'  Hall  to  see  a  dissection  ? 
I  will  report  it  to  you  :   'tis  a  thing  framed 
With  divers  corners,  and  into  every  corner 
A  man  may  entertain  a  friend  :  (there  came 
The  proverb,  A*man  may  love  one  well,  and  yet 

Retain  a  friend  in  a  corner.) 

tush,  'tis  not 

The  real  heart ;   but  the  unseen  faculties. 


Those  I'll  decipher  unto  you  :  (for  surely 

The  most  part  are  but  ciphers.)     The  heart  indeed 

For  the  most  part  doth  keep  a  better  guest 

Than  himself  in  him;  that  is,  the  soul.     Now  the  soul 

Being  a  tree,  there  are  divers  branches  spreading  out  of  it. 

As  loving-affection,  suffering-sorrows,  and  the  like. 

Then,  Sir,  these  affections  or  sorrows  being  but  branches, 

Are  sometimes  lopt  off,  or  of  themselves  wither  ; 

And  new  shoot  in  their  rooms :  as  for  example  ; 

Your  friend  dies,  there  appears  sorrow,  but  it  quickly 

Withers  ;  then  is  that  branch  gone.     Again,  you  love  a  friend  ; 

*  "  Children  of  the  Sun." — Zanga  in  the  Revenge. 


A  NEW  WONDER,  ETC.  135 

There  affection  springs  forth  ;  at  last  you  distaste ; 
Then  that  branch  withers  again,  and  another  buds 
In  his  room. 


A  NEW  WONDER :  A  WOMAN  NEVER  VEXT.     A  COMEDY 
BY  WILLIAM  ROWLEY. 

The  Woman  never  Vext  states  her  Case  to  a  Divine. 

Widow.     Doctor. 

Doc.  You  sent  for  me,  gentlewoman  ? 

Wid.  Sir,  I  did,  and  to  this  end. 
I  have  some  scruples  in  my  conscience  ; 
Some  doubtful  problems  which  I  cannot  answer, 
Nor  reconcile  ;   I'd  have  you  make  them  plain. 

Doc.  This  is  my  duty  ;  pray  speak  your  mind. 

Wid.   And  as  I  speak,  I  must  remember  heaven 
That  gave  those  blessings  which  I  must  relate  : 
Sir,  you  now  behold  a  wondrous  woman  ; 
You  only  wonder  at  the  epithet ; 
I  can  approve  it  good  :  guess  at  mine  age. 

Doc.  At  the  half-way  'twixt  thirty  and  forty. 

Wid.  'Twas  not  much  amiss ;  yet  nearest  to  the  last. 
How  think  you  then,  is  not  this  a  Wonder, 
That  a  Woman  lives  full  seven-and-thirty  years, 
Maid  to  a  wife,  and  wife  unto  a  widow, 
Now  widow 'd,  and  mine  own ;  yet  all  this  while, 
From  the  extremest  verge  of  my  remembrance, 
Even  from  my  weaning  hour  unto  this  minute, 
Did  never  taste  what  was  calamity. 
I  know  not  yet  what  grief  is,  yet  have  sought 
A  hundred  ways  for  his  acquaintance :  with  me 
Prosperity  hath  kept  so  close  a  watch, 
That  even  those  things  that  I  have  meant  a  cross, 
Have  that  way  turn'd  a  blessing.     Is  it  not  strange  ? 

Doc.  Unparallel'd  ;  this  gift  is  singular, 
And  to  you  n\nr\r  belonging  :   yoi.  are  the  moon, 


.36  ENGLISH  DRAMATIC  POETS. 

For  there  's  but  one^  all  women  else  are  stars, 
For  there  are  none  of  like  condition. 
Full  oft  and  many  have  I  heard  complain 
Of  discontents,  thwarts,  and  adversities; 
But  a  second  to  yourself  I  never  knew, 
To  groan  under  the  superflux  of  blessings, 
To  have  ever  been  alien  unto  sorrow. 
No  trip  of  fate  ?  sure  it  is  wonderful. 

Wid.  Aye,  Sir,  'tis  wonderful,  but  is  it  well  ? 
For  it  is  now  my  chief  affliction. 
I  have  heard  you  say  that  the  Child  of  Heaven 
Shall  suffer  many  tribulations ; 

Nay,  kings  and  princes  share  them  with  their  subjects; 
Then  I  that  know  not  any  chastisement, 
How  may  I  know  my  part  of  childhood  ? 

Doc.  'Tis  a  good  doubt ;  but  make  it  not  extreme. 
'Tis  some  affliction  that  you  are  afflicted 
For  want  of  affliction  :  cherish  that : 
Yet  wrest  it  not  to  misconstruction  ; 
For  all  your  blessings  are  free  gifts  from  heaven, 
Health,  wealth,  and  peace  ;  nor  can  they  turn  into 
Curses,  but  by  abuse.     Pray,  let  me  question  you  : 
You  lost  a  husband,  was  it  no  grief  to  you  ? 

Wid.   It  was,  but  very  small  :  no  sooner  I 
Had  given  it  entertainment  as  a  sorrow, 
But  straight  it  turn'd  unto  my  treble  joy  : 
A  comfortable  revelation  prompts  me  then, 
That  husband  (whom  in  life  I  held  so  dear) 
Had  chang'd  a  frailty  to  unchanging  joys  : 
Methought  I  saw  him  stellified  in  heaven, 
And  singing  hallelujahs  'mongst  a  quire 
Of  white  sainted  souls  :  then  again  it  snake, 
And  said,  it  was  a  sin  for  me  to  grieve 
At  his  best  good,  that  I  esteemed  best : 
And  thus  this  slender  shadow  of  a  grief 
Vanish'd  again. 

Doc.   All  this  was  happy,  nor 
Can  you  wrest  it  from  a  heavenly  blessing.     Do  not 


A  NEW  WONDER,  ETC.  J  37 


Appoint  the  rod  :  leave  still  the  stroke  unto 
The  magistrate  :  the  time  is  not  past,  but 
You  may  feel  enough. — 

Wid.  One  taste  more  I  had,  although  but  little, 
Yet  I  would  aggravate  to  make  the  most  on  't : 
'Twas  thus  :  the  other  day  it  was  my  hap, 
In  crossing  of  the  Thames, 
To  drop  that  wedlock  ring  from  off  my  finger, 
That  once  conjoined  me  and  my  dear  husband : 
It  sunk  ;  I  prized  it  dear ;  the  dearer,  'cause  it  kept 
Still  in  mine  eye  the  memory  of  my.loss  : 
Yet  I  grieved  the  loss ;  and  did  joy  withal, 
That  I  had  found  a  grief.     And  this  is  all 
The  sorrow  I  can  boast  of. 

Doc.  This  is  but  small. 

Wid.  Nay,  sure,  I  am  of  this  opinion, 
That  had  I  suffer'd  a  draught  to  be  made  for  it, 
The  bottom  would  have  sent  it  up  again ; 
I  am  so  wondrously  fortunate. 

Foster,  a  wealthy  Merchant,  has  a  profligate  Brother,  Stephen,  whom 
Robert,  Son  to  Foster,  relieves  out  of  Prison  with  some  of  his  Father's 
money  intrusted  to  him.  For  this,  his  Father  turns  him  out  of  doors  and 
disinherits  him.  Meantime,  by  a  reverse  of  fortune,  Stephen  becomes 
rich  ;  and  Foster  by  losses  in  trade  is  thrown  into  the  same  Prison 
(Ludgate)  fro7ii  which  his  brother  had  been  relieved.  Stephen  adopts 
his  Nephew,  on  the  condition  that  he  shall  not  assist  or  go  near  his 
Father:  but  filial  piety  prevails,  above  the  consideration  either  of  his 
Uncle's  displeasure,  or  of  his  Father's  late  unkindness  ;  and  he  visits 
his  father  in  Prison. 

Foster.     Robert. 

Fos.  O  torment  to  my  soul,  what  mak'st  thou  here  ? 
Cannot  the  picture  of  my  misery 
Be  drawn,  and  hung  out  to  the  eyes  of  men, 
But  thou  must  come  to  scorn  and  laugh  at  it  ? 

Rob.  Dear  Sir,  I  come  to  thrust  my  back  under  your  load, 
To  make  the  burthen  lighter. 

Fos.   Hence  from  my  sight,  dissembling  villain,  go  : 
Thine  uncle  sends  defiance  to  my  wo, 


138  ENGLISH   DRAMATIC  POETS. 

And  thou  must  bring  it :  hence,  thou  Basilisk, 
That  killst  me  with  thine  eyes.     Nay,  never  kneel ; 
These  scornful  mocks  more  than  my  woes  I  feel. 

Rob.  Alas,  I  mock  ye  not,  but  come  in  love 
And  natural  duty,  Sir,  to  beg  your  blessing ; 

And  for  mine  uncle 

Fos.  Him  and  thee  I  curse. 
I'll  starve  ere  I  eat  bread  from  his  purse, 
Or  from  thy  hand  :  out,  villain ;  tell  that  cur, 
Thy  barking  uncle,  that  I  lie  not  here 
Upon  my  bed  of  riot,  as  he  did, 
Cover'd  with  all  the  villainies  which  man 
Had  ever  woven  ;  tell  him  I  lie  not  so ; 
It  was  the  hand  of  heaven  struck  me  thus  low, 
And  I  do  thank  it.      Get  thee  gone,  I  say, 
Or  I  shall  curse  thee,  strike  thee ;   prithee  away  : 
Or  if  thou'lt  laugh  thy  fill  at  my  poor  state, 
Then  stay,  and  listen  to  the  prison  grate, 
And  hear  thy  father,  an  old  wretched  man, 
That  yesterday  had  thousands,  beg  and  cry 
To  get  a  penny  :  Oh,  my  misery. 
Rob.  Dear  Sir,  for  pity  hear  me. 
Fos.  Upon  my  curse  I  charge,  no  nearer  come; 
I'll  be  no  father  to  so  vile  a  son. 

Rob.  O  my  abortive  fate, 
Why  for  my  good  am  I  thus  paid  with  hate  ? 
From  this  sad  place  of  Ludgate  here  I  freed 
An  uncle,  and  I  lost  a  father  for  it ; 
Now  is  my  father  here,  whom  if  I  succor, 
I  then  must  lose  my  uncle's  love  and  favor. 
My  father  once  being  rich,  and  uncle  poor, 
I  him  relieving  was  thrust  forth  of  doors, 
Baffled,  reviled,  and  disinherited. 
Now  mine  own  father  here  must  beg  for  bread, 
Mine  uncle  being  rich  ;  and  yet,  if  I 
Feed  him,  myself  must  beg.     Oh  misery  ; 
How  bitter  is  thy  taste  ;  yet  I  will  drink 
Thy  strongest  poison  ;  fret  what  mischief  can, 


A  NEW  WONDER,  ETC.  139 

I'll  feed  my  father;  though  like  the  Pelican. 
I  peck  mine  own  breast  for  him. 

His  Father  appears  above  at  the  Grate,  a  Box  hanging  down. 

Fos.  Bread,  bread,  one  penny  to  buy  a  loaf  of  bread,  for  the 

tender  mercy. 
Rob.  O  me  my  shame  !     I  know  that  voice  full  well ; 
I'll  help  thy  wants  although  thou  curse  me  still. 

He  stands  where  he  is  unseen  by  his  Father. 

Fos.  Bread,  bread,  some  christian  man  send  back 
Your  charity  to  a  number  of  poor  prisoners. 
One  penny  for  the  tender  mercy— 

[Robert  puts  in  Money. 
The  hand  of  heaven  reward  you,  gentle  Sir, 
Never  may  you  want,  never  feel  misery ; 
Let  blessings  in  unnumber'd  measure  grow, 
And  fall  upon  your  head,  where'er  you  go. 

Rob.  O  happy  comfort :  curses  to  the  ground 
First  struck  me  :  now  with  blessings  am  I  crown'd.* 

Fos.  Bread,  bread,  for  the  tender  mercy,  one  penny  for  a  loaf 
of  bread. 

Rob.  I'll  buy  more  blessings  :  take  thou  all  my  store ; 
I'll  keep  no  coin  and  see  my  Father  poor. 

Fos.  Good  angels  guard  you,  Sir,  my  prayers  shall  be 
That  heaven  may  bless  you  for  this  charity. 

Rob.  If  he  knew  me,  sure  he  would  not  say  so : 
Yet  I  have  comfort,  if  by  any  means 
I  o-et  a  blessing  from  my  father's  hands. 
How  cheap  are  good  prayers  !  a  poor  penny  buys 
That,  by  which  man  up  in  a  minute  flies 
And  mounts  to  heaven. 

Enter  Stephen. 

Oh  me,  mine  uncle  sees  me. 

Step.  Now,  Sir,  what  makes  you  here 
So  near  the  prison  ? 

•  A  blessing  stolen  at  least  as  fairly  as  Jacob's  was. 


140  ENGLISH   DKAMATIC  POETS. 


Rob.  I  was  going,  Sir, 
To  buy  meat  for  a  poor  bird  I  have, 
That  sits  so  sadly  in  the  cage  of  late, 
I  think  he'll  die  for  sorrow. 

Step.  So,  Sir  : 
Your  pity  will  not  quit  your  pains,  I  fear  me. 
I  shall  find  that  bird  (I  think)  to  be  that  churlish  wretch 
Your  father,  that  now  has  taken 
Shelter  here  in  Ludgate.     Go  to,  Sir  ;  urge  me  not, 
You'd  best ;  I  have  giv'n  you  warning :  fawn  not  on  him, 
Nor  come  not  near  him  if  you'll  have  my  love. 

Rob.  'Las,  Sir ;   that  lamb 
Were  most  unnatural  that  should  hate  the  dam. 

Step.  Lamb  me  no  lambs,  Sir. 

Rob.  Good  uncle,  'las,  you  know,  when  you  lay  here, 
I  succor'd  you :  so  let  me  now  help  him. 

Step.  Yes,  as  he  did  me ; 
To  laugh  and  triumph  at  my  misery. 
You  freed  me  with  his  gold,  but  'gainst  his  will : 
For  him  I  might  have  rotted,  and  lain  still. 
So  shall  he  now. 

Rob.  Alack  the  day  ! 

Step.  If  him  thou  pity,  'tis  thine  own  decay. 

Fos.  Bread,  bread,  some  charitable  man  remember  the  poor 
Prisoners,  bread  for  the  tender  mercy,  one  penny. 

Rob.  O  listen,  uncle,  that's  my  poor  father's  voice. 

Step.  There  let  him  howl.     Get  you  gone,  and  come  not  near 
him. 

Rob.  Oh  my  soul, 
What  tortures  dost  thou  feel !  earth  ne'er  shall  find 
A  son  so  true,  yet  forc'd  to  be  unkind. 

Robert  disobeys  his  Uncle's  Injunctions,  and  again  visits  his  Father 

Foster.     Wife.     Robert. 
Fos.  Ha  !  what  art  thou  ?  Call  for  the  keeper  there, 
And  thrust  him  out  of  doors,  or  lock  me  up. 
Wife.  O  'tis  your  son. 
Fos.  I  know  him  not. 


A  NEW  WONDER,  ETC.  141 


I  am  no  king,  unless  of  scorn  and  wo, 

Why  kneel'st  thou  then,  why  dost  thou  mock  me  so  ? 

Rob.  O  my  dear  father,  hither  am  I  come, 
Not  like  a  threatening  storm  to  increase  your  wrack, 
For  I  would  take  all  sorrows  from  your  hack, 
To  lay  them  all  on  my  own. 

Fos.  Rise,  mischief,  rise ;  away,  and  get  thee  gone. 

Rob.  O  if  I  be  thus  hateful  to  your  eye, 
I  will  depart,  and  wish  I  soon  may  die ; 
Yet  let  your  blessing,  Sir,  but  fall  on  me. 

Fos.  My  heart  still  hates  thee. 

Wife.  Sweet  husband. 

Fos.  Get  you  both  gone  ; 
That  misery  takes  some  rest  that  dwells  alone. 
Away,  thou  villain. 

Rob.  Heaven  can  tell ; 
Ake  but  your  finger,  I  to  make  it  well 
Would  cut  my  hand  off. 

Fos.  Hang  thee,  hang  thee. 

Wife.  Husband. 

Fos.  Destruction  meet  thee.     Turn  the  key  there,  ho. 

Rob.  Good  Sir,  I'm  gone,  I  will  not  stay  to  grieve  you. 
Oh,  knew  you,  for  your  woes  what  pains  I  feel, 
You  would  not  scorn  me  so.     See,  Sir,  to  cool, 
Your  heat  of  burning  sorrow,  I  have  got 
Two  hundred  pounds,  and  glad  it  is  my  lot 
To  lay  it  down  with  reverence  at  your  feet ; 
No  comfort  in  the  world  to  me  is  sweet, 
Whilst  thus  you  live  in  moan. 

Fos.  Stay. 

Rob.  Good  truth,  Sir,  I'll  have  none  of  it  back, 
Could  but  one  penny  of  it  save  my  life. 

Wife.  Yet  stay,  and  hear  him :  Oh  unnatural  strife 
In  a  hard  father's  bosom. 

Fos.   I  see  mine  error  now  :  Oh,  can  there  grow 
A  rose  upon  a  bramble  ?  did  there  e'er  flow 
Poison  and  health  together  in  one  tide  ? 
I'm  born  a  man  :   reason  may  step  aside, 


142  ENGLISH  DRAMATIC  POETS. 

And  lead  a  father's  love  out  of  the  way : 
Forgive  me.  my  good  boy,  I  went  astray  ; 
Look,  on  my  knees  I  beg  it :  no.  for  joy, 
Thou  bring'st  this  golden  rubbish  ;   which  I  spurn  : 
But  glad  in  this,  the  heavens  mine  eye-balls  turn, 
And  fix  them  right  to  look  upon  that  face, 
Where  love  remains  with  pity,  duty,  grace. 
Oh  my  dear  wronged  boy. 

Rob.  Gladness  o'erwhelms 
My  heart  with  joy  :  I  cannot  speak. 

Wife.  Crosses  of  this  foolish  world 
Did  never  grieve  my  heart  with  torments  more 
Than  it  is  now  grown  light 
With  joy  and  comfort  of  this  happy  sight. 

[The  old  play-writers  are  distinguished  by  an  honest  boldness  of  exhibi- 
tion, they  show  everything  without  being  ashamed.  If  a  reverse  in  fortune  be 
the  thing  to  be  personified,  they  fairly  bring  us  to  the  prison-gate  and  the  alms- 
basket.  A  poor  man  on  our  stage  is  always  a  gentleman,  he  maybe  known 
by  a  peculiar  neatness  of  apparel,  and  by  wearing  black.  Our  delicacy,  in 
fact,  forbids  the  dramatizing  of  Distress  at  all.  It  is  never  shown  in  its 
essential  properties  ;*  it  appears  but  as  the  adjunct  to  some  virtue,  as  some- 


*  Guzman  de  Alfarache  in  that  good  old  book,  "  The  Spanish  Rogue,"  has 
summed  up  a  few  of  the  properties  of  poverty — "  that  poverty,  which  is  not 
the  daughter  of  the  spirit,  is  but  the  mother  of  shame  and  reproach  ;  it  is  a 
disreputation  that  drowns  all  the  other  good  parts  that  are  in  man ;  it  is  a 
disposition  to  all  kind  of  evil ;  it  is  man's  most  foe  ;  it  is  a  leprosy  full  of 
anguish  ;  it  is  a  way  that  leads  unto  hell ;  it  is  a  sea  wherein  our  patience  is 
overwhelmed,  our  honor  is  consumed,  our  lives  are  ended,  and  our  souls  are 
utterly  lost  and  cast  away  for  ever.  The  poor  man  is  a  kind  of  money  that 
is  not  current ;  the  subject  of  every  idle  huswife's  chat ;  the  offscum  of  the 
people  ;  the  dust  of  the  street,  first  trampled  under  foot  and  then  thrown  on 
the  dunghill ;  in  conclusion,  the  poor  man  is  the  rich  man's  ass.  He  dineth 
with  the  last,  fareth  of  the  worst,  and  payeth  dearest :  his  sixpence  will  not 
go  so  far  as  a  rich  man's  threepence  ;  his  opinion  is  ignorance  ;  his  discre- 
tion, foolishness  ;  his  suffrage,  scorn  ;  his  stock  upon  the  common,  abused 
by  many  and  abhorred  of  all.  If  he  come  in  company,  he  is  not  heard  ; 
if  any  chance  to  meet  him,  they  seek  to  shun  him  ;  if  he  advise,  though 
never  so  wisely,  they  grudge  and  murmur  at  him  ;  if  he  work  miracles, 
they  say  he  is  a  witch  :  if  virtuous,  that  he  goeth  about  to  deceive:  his 
venial  sin  is  a  blasphemy;    his   thought  is   made  treason;  his  cause,  be  it 


WOMEN  BEWARE   WOMEN.  143 

thing  which  is  to  be  relieved,  from  the  approbation  of  which  relief  the 
spectators  are  to  derive  a  certain  soothing  of  self-referred  satisfaction.  We 
turn  away  from  the  real  [essences  of  things  to  hunt  after  their  relative  sha- 
dows, moral  duties :  whereas  if  the  truth  of  things  were  fairly  represented, 
the  relative  duties  might  be  safely  trusted  to  themselves,  and  moral  philoso- 
phy lose  the  name  of  a  science.] 


WOMEN   BEWARE  WOMEN;  A  TRAGEDY. 
BY  THOMAS  MIDDLETON. 

Lima,  the  Duke's  creature,  cajoles  a  poor  Widow  with  the  appearance  of 
Hospitality  and  neighborly  Attentions,  that  she  may  get  her  Daughter- 
in-Law  (who  is  left  in  the  Mother's  care  in  the  Son's  absence)  into  her 
trains,  to  serve  the  Duke's  pleasure. 

Livia.     Widow.     A  Gentleman.  Livia's  Guest. 

Liv.  Widow,  come,  come,  I  have  a  great  quarrel  to  you, 
Faith  I  must  chide  you  that  you  must  be  sent  for  ; 
You  make  yourself  so  strange,  never  come  at  us, 
And  yet  so  near  a  neighbor,  and  so  unkind  ; 
Troth,  you  're  to  blame ;  you  cannot  be  more  welcome 
To  any  house  in  Florence,  that  I  '11  tell  you. 

Wid.  My  thanks  must  needs  acknowledge  so  much,  madam. 

Liv.  How  can  you  be  so  strange  then  1  I  sit  here 
Sometimes  whole  days  together  without  company, 
When  business  draws  this  gentleman  from  home, 
And  should  be  happy  in  society 
Which  I  so  well  affect  as  that  of  yours. 
I  know  you  're  alone  too ;  why  should  not  we 
Like  two  kind  neighbors  then  supply  the  wants 

never  so  just,  it  is  not  regarded  ;  and,  to  have  his  wrongs  righted,  he  must 
appeal  to  that  other  life.  All  men  crush  him  ;  no  man  favoreth  him  ;  there 
is  no  man  that  will  relieve  his  wants  ;  no  man  that  will  comfort  him  in  his 
miseries ;  nor  no  man  that  will  bear  him  company,  when  he  is  all  alone, 
and  oppressed  with  grief.  None  help  him  ;  all  hinder  him  ;  none  give  him, 
all  take  from  him  ;  he  is  debtor  to  none,  and  yet  must  make  payment  to  all. 
O  the  unfortunate  and  poor  condition  of  him  that  is  poor,  to  whom  even  the 
very  hours  are  sold,  which  the  clock  striketh,  and  pays  custom  for  the  sun- 
shine in  August." 


144  ENGLISH  DRAMATIC  POETS. 


Of  one  another,  having  tongue-discourse, 
Experience  in  the  world,  and  such  kind  helps, 
To  laugh  down  time  and  meet  age  merrily  ? 

Wid.  Age,  madam  !  you  speak  mirth  :   'tis  at  my  door, 
But  a  long  journey  from  your  Ladyship  yet. 

Liv.  My  faith,  I  'm  nine  and  thirty,  every  stroke,  wench  ; 
And  'tis  a  general  observation 

'Mongst  knights  ;  wives,  or  widows,  we  account  ourselves 
Then  old,  when  young  men's  eyes  leave  looking  at  us. 
Come,  now  I  have  thy  company,  I  '11  not  part  with  it 
Till  after  supper. 

Wid.  Yes,  I  must  crave  pardon,  madam. 

Liv.  I  swear  you  shall  stay  supper  ;   we  have  no  strangers, 
woman, 
None  but  my  sojourners  and  I,  this  gentleman 
And  the  young  heir  his  ward  ;  you  know  your  company. 

Wid.  Some  other  time  I  will  make  bold  with  you,  madam. 

Liv.  Faith  she  shall  not  go. 
Do  you  think  I'll  be  forsworn  ? 

Wid.   'Tis  a  great  while 
Till  supper  time  ;  I'll  take  my  leave  then  now,  madam, 
And  come  again  in  the  evening,  since  your  ladyship 
Will  have  it  so. 

Liv.  In  the  evening  !  by  my  troth,  wench, 
I'll  keep  you  while  I  have  you  ;  you've  great  business  sure, 
To  sit  alone  at  home  ;   I  wonder  strangely 
What  pleasure  you  take  in  't.     Were  't  to  me  now, 
I  should  be  ever  at  one  neighbor's  house 
Or  other  all  day  long  ;  having  no  charge, 
Or  none  to  chide  you,  if  you  go,  or  stay, 
Who  may  live  merrier,  aye,  or  more  at  heart's  ease  ? 
Come,  we'll  to  chess  or  draughts,  there  are  a  hundred  tricks 
To  drive  out  time  till  supper,  never  fear  't,  wench. 

[A  Chess-board  is  set. 

Wid.  I'll  but  make  one  step  home,  and  return  straight,  madam. 

Liv.  Come,  I'll  not  trust  you,  you  make  more  excuses 
To  your  kind  friends  than  ever  I  knew  any. 
What  business  can  you  have,  if  you  be  sure 


WOMEN  BEWARE  WOMEN.  14& 


You've  lock'd  the  doors  ?  and,  that  being  all  you  have, 

I  know  you're  careful  on  't :  one  afternoon 

So  much  to  spend  here !  say  I  should  entreat  you  now 

To  lie  a  night  or  two,  or  a  week,  with  me, 

Or  leave  your  own  house  for  a  month  together ; 

It  were  a  kindness  that  long  neighborhood 

And  friendship  might  well  hope  to  prevail  in  : 

Would  you  deny  such  a  request  ?  i'faith 

Speak  truly  and  freely. 

Wid.  I  were  then  uncivil,  madam. 

Liv.   Go  to  then,  set  your  men  :  we'll  have  whole  nights 
Of  mirth  together,  ere  we  be  much  older,  wench. 

Wid.  As  good  now  tell  her  then,  for  she  will  know  it ; 
I've  always  found  her  a  most  friendly  lady.  [Aside. 

Liv.  Why,  widow,  where's  your  mind  ? 

Wid.   Troth,  even  at  home,  madam. 
To  tell  you  truth,  I  left  a  gentlewoman 
Even  sitting  all  alone,  which  is  uncomfortable, 
Especially  to  young  bloods. 

Liv.  Another  excuse. 

Wid.  No,  as  I  hope  for  health,  madam,  that's  a  truth ; 
Please  vou  to  send  and  see. 

Liv.  What  gentlewoman  ?  pish. 

Wid.  Wife  to  my  son  indeed. 

Liv.  Now  I  beshrew  you. 
Could  you  be  so  unkind  to  her  and  me, 
To  come  and  not  bring  her  ?  faith,  'tis  not  friendly. 

Wid.  I  fear'd  to  be  too  bold. 

Liv.  Too  bold !  Oh  what's  become 
Of  the  true  hearty  love  was  wont  to  be 
'Monjrst  neighbors  in  old  time  ? 

Wid.  And  she's  a  stranger,  madam. 

Liv.     The  more  should  be  her  welcome  :  when  is  courtesy 
In  better  practice,  than  when  'tis  employ'd 
In  entertaining  strangers.     I  could  chide  ye  in  faith. 
Leave  her  behind,  poor  gentlewoman,  alone  too! 
Make  some  amends,  and  send  for  her  betimes,  go. 

Wid.  Please  you  command  one  of  your  servants,  madam. 
part  i.  11 


146  ENGLISH    DRAMATIC  POETS. 


Liv.  Within  there. — 
Attend  the  gentlewoman.  * 

Brancha  resists  the  Duke's  attempt. 

Bran.  Oh  treachery  to  honor  ! 

Duke.  Prithee  tremble  not. 
I  feel  thy  breast  shake  like  a  turtle  panting 
Under  a  loving  hand  that  makes  much  on't. 
Why  art  so  fearful  ? 

Bran.  Oh  my  extremity  ! 
My  Lord,  what  seek  you  1 

Duke.  Love. 

Bran.  'Tis  gone  already  : 
I  have  a  husband. 

Duke.  That's  a  single  comfort  : 
Take  a  friend  to  him. 

Bran.  That's  a  double  mischief; 
Or  else  there's  no  religion. 

Duke.  Do  not  tremble 
At  fears  of  thy  own  making. 

Bran.  Nor,  great  lord, 
Make  me  not  bold  with  death  and  deeds  of  ruin, 
Because  they  fear  not  you  ;  me  they  must  fright ; 
Then  am  I  best  in  health :  should  thunder  speak 
And  none  regard  it,  it  had  lost  the  name, 
And  were  as  good  I  3  still.     I'm  not  like  those 
That  take  their  sou  idest  sleeps  in  greatest  tempests  ; 
Then  wake  I  most,  the  weather  fearfullest, 
And  call  for  strength  to  virtue. 

Winding  Sheet. 

to  have  a  being,  and  to  live  'mongst  men, 

Is  a  fearful  living  and  a  poor  one  ;  let  a  man  truly  think  on  't. 
To  have  the  toil  and  griefs  of  fourscore  years 

*  This  is  one  of  those  scenes  which  has  the  air  of  being  an  immediate 
transcript  from  life.  Livia  the  "good  neighbor"  is  as  real  a  creature  as  one 
of  Chaucer's  characters  She  is  such  another  jolly  Housewife  as  the  Wife 
of  Bath 


WOMEN  BEWARE  WOMEN.  147 

Put  up  in  a  white  sheet,  tied  with  two  knots : 
Methinks  it  should  strike  earthquakes  in  adulterers, 
When  even  the  very  sheets  they  commit  sin  in 
May  prove  for  aught  they  know  all  their  last  garments. 

Great  Men's  looks. 

Did  not  the  duke  look  up  ?  methought  he  saw  us. — 

That's  every  one's  conceit  that  sees  a  duke, 

If  he  look  steadfastly,  he  looks  straight  at  them  : 
When  he  perhaps,  good  careful  gentleman, 
Never  minds  any,  but  the  look  he  casts 
Is  at  his  own  intentions,  and  his  object 
Only  the  public  good.  

Weeping  in  Love. 

Why  should  those  tears  be  fetch'd  forth !  cannot  love 
Be  even  as  well  expressed  in  a  good  look, 
But  it  must  see  her  face  still  in  a  fountain  ? 
It  shows  like  a  country  maid  dressing  her  head 
By  a  dish  of  water :  come,  'tis  an  old  custom 
To  weep  for  love. 

Lover's  Chidings. 

— prithee  forgive  me, 
I  did  but  chide  in  jest :     the  best  loves  use  it 
Sometimes  ;  it  sets  an  edge  upon  affection. 
When  we  invite  our  best  friends  to  a  feast, 
;Tis  not  all  sweetmeats  that  we  set  before  'em  ; 
There's  something  sharp  and  salt,  both  to  whet  appetite, 
And  make  'em  taste  their  wine  well  :  so  methinks, 
After  a  friendly  sharp  and  savory  chiding, 
A  kiss  tastes  wondrous  well,  and  full  o'  the  grape. 

Wedlock. 

O  thou  the  ripe  time  of  man's  misery,  wedlock  ; 
When  all  his  thoughts  like  over-laden  trees 
Crack  with  the  fruits  they  bear,  in  cares,  in  jealousies. 
O  that's  a  fruit  thai  ripens  hastily. 


148  ENGLISH  DRAMATIC  POETS. 


After  'tis  knit  to  marriage ;  it  begins, 
As  soon  as  the  sun  shines  upon  the  bride, 
A  little  to  show  color.  

Marrying  the  Adulteress,  the  Husband  dead. 

Is  not  sin  sure  enough  to  wretched  man, 
But  he  must  bind  himself  in  chains  to  't  ?  worse  ! 
Must  marriage,  that  immaculate  robe  of  honor, 
That  renders  Virtue  glorious,  fair,  and  fruitful, 
To  her  great  master,  be  now  made  the  garment 
Of  leprosy  and  foulness  ?  is  this  penitence, 
To  sanctify  hot  lust  ?  what  is  it  otherways 
Than  worship  done  to  devils  ?  is  this  the  best 
Amends  that  sin  can  make  after  her  riots ! 
As  if  a  drunkard,  to  appease  heaven's  wrath, 
Should  offer  up  his  surfeit  for  a  sacrifice  : 
If  that  be  comely,  then  lust's  offerings  are 
On  wedlock's  sacred  altar. 


MORE  DISSEMBLERS  BESIDES  WOMEN:  A  COMEDY. 
BY  THOMAS  MIDDLETON. 

Death. 
— when  the  heart's  above,  the  body  walks  here 


But  like  an  idle  servingman  below, 

Gaping  and  waiting  for  his  master's  coming. 

He  that  lives  fourscore  years,  is  but  like  one 

That  stays  here  for  a  friend :  when  death  comes,  then 

Away  he  goes,  and  is  ne'er  seen  again. 

Loving  a  Woman. 
of  all  the  frenzies 


That  follow  flesh  and  blood, 
The  most  ridiculous  is  to  fawn  on  women  ; 
There's  no  excuse  for  that :  'tis  such  a  madness, 
There  is  no  cure  set  down  for  't ;  no  physician 
Ever  spent  hour  about  it,  for  they  guess'd 


MORE  DISSEMBLERS  BESIDES  WOMEN.  149 

'Twas  all  in  vain,  when  they  first  lov'd,  themselves, 

And  never  since  durst  practise  :  cry  lieu  mihi  ; 

That's  all  the  help  they  have  for  't.     I'd  rather  meet 

A  witch  far  north  than  a  fine  fool  in  love  ; 

The  sight  would  less  afflict  me.     But  for  modesty, 

I  should  fall  foul  in  words  upon  fond  man, 

That  can  forget  his  excellence  and  honor, 

His  serious  meditations,  being  the  end 

Of  his  creation,  to  learn  well  to  die  ; 

A.nd  live  a  prisoner  to  a  woman's  eye. 

Widow's  Vow. 

Lord  Cardinal.  Increase  of  health  and  a  redoubled  courage 
To  chastity's  great  soldier :   what,  so  sad,  Madam  ? 
The  memory  of  her  seven  years  deceas'd  Lord 
Springs  yet  into  her  eyes,  as  fresh  and  full 
As  at  the  seventh  hour  after  his  departure. 
What  a  perpetual  fountain  is  her  virtue ! 
Too  much  to  afflict  yourself  with  ancient  sorrow 
Is  not  so  strictly  for  your  strength  required : 
Your  vow  is  charge  enough,  believe  me  'fis,  Madam ; 
You  need  no  weightier  task. 

Dtich.  Religious  Sir, 
You  heard  the  last  words  of  my  dying  Lord. 

Lord  Card.  Which  I  shall  ne'er  forget. 

Duch.  May  I  entreat 
Your  goodness  but  to  speak  'em  over  to  me, 
As  near  as  memory  can  befriend  your  utterance  : 
That  I  may  think  awhile  I  stand  in  presence 
Of  my  departing  Husband. 

Lord  Card.  What's  your  meaning 
In  this,  most  virtuous  Madam  1 

Duch.  'Tis  a  courtesy 
I  stand  in  need  of,  Sir,  at  this  time  especially ; 
Urge  it  no  farther  yet :  as  it  proves  to  me, 
You  shall  hear  from  me  ;  only  I  desire  it 
Effectually  from  you,  Sir,  that's  my  request. 

Lord  Card.  1  wonder ;  yet  I'll  spare  to  question  farther ; 


150  ENGLISH  DRAMATIC  POETS. 


You  shall  have  your  desire. 

Duck.   I  thank  you,  Sir  : 
A  blessing  come  along  with  it. 

Lord  Card,  [repeats]  "  You  see,  my  Lords,  what  all  earth's 
glory  is, 
"  Rightly  defined  in  me,  uncertain  breath  : 
"  A  dream  of  threescore  years  to  the  long  sleeper, 
•'  To  most  not  half  the  time.     Beware  ambition  ; 
"  Heaven  is  not  reach'd  with  pride,  but  with  submission. 
"  And  you  Lord  Cardinal  labor  to  perfect 
"  Good  purposes  begun,  be  what  you  seem, 
"  Stedfast  and  uncorrupt,  your  actions  noble, 
"  Your  goodness  simple,  without  gain  or  art ; 
"  And  not  in  vesture  holier  than  in  heart. 
"  But  'tis  a  pain  more  than  the  pangs  of  death 
"  To  think  that  we  must  part,  fellows  of  life. — 
"  Thou  richness  of  my  joys,  kind  and  dear  Princess, 
"  Death  had  no  sting,  but  for  our  separation  ; 
"  'Twould  come  more  calm  than  an  evening's  peace, 
"  That  brings  on  rest  to  labors  :  Thou  art  so  precious, 
"  I  should  depart  in  everlasting  envy 
"  Unto  the  man,  that  ever  should  enjoy  thee. 
"  Oh  a  new  torment  strikes  his  face  into  me, 
"  When  I  but  think  on  't,  I  am  rack'd  and  torn 
"  (Pity  me)  in  thy  virtues." 

Buck.  "  My  lov'd  Lord, 
"  Let  your  confirm'd  opinion  of  my  life, 
"  My  love,  my  faithful  love,  seal  an  assurance 
"  Of  quiet  to  your  spirit,  that  no  forgetfulness 
"  Can  cast  a  sleep  50  deadly  on  my  senses, 
"  To  draw  my  affections  to  a  second  liking." 

Lord  Card.  "  It  has  ever  been  the  promise,  and  the  spring 
"  Of  my  great  love  to  thee.     For,  once  to  marry 
"  Is  honorable  in  woman,  and  her  ignorance 
"  Stands  for  a  virtue,  coming  new  and  fresh  ; 
"  But  second  marriage  shows  desires  in  flesh  ; 
"  Thence  lust,  and  heat,  and  common  custom  grows : 
"  But  she's  part  virgin,  who  but  one  man  knows. 


NO  WIT  HELP  LIKE  A  WOMAN'S.  151 


n  I  here  expect  a  work  of  thy  great  faith  : 
"  At  my  last  parting  I  can  crave  no  more  ; 
"  And  with  thy  vow,  I  rest  myself  for  ever ; 
"  My  soul  and  it  shall  fly  to  heaven  together  : 
"  Seal  to  my  spirit  that  quiet  satisfaction, 
"  And  I  go  hence  in  peace." 

Duch.  "  Then  here  I  vow,  never " 

Lord  Card.  Why,  Madam 

Duch.   I  can  go  no  further. 

Lord  Card.  What,  have  you  forgot  your  vow  ? 

Duch.  I  have,  too  certainly. 

Lord  Card.  Your  vow  ?  that  cannot  be  ;  it  follows  now, 
Just  where  I  left. 

Duch.  My  frailty  gets  before  it ; 
Nothing  prevails  but  ill. 

Lord  Card.   What  ail  you,  Madam  1 

Duch.  Sir,  Vm  in  love. 


NO  WIT 
HELP 
A  COMEDY.  BY  THOMAS  MIDDLETON. 


LIKE  A  WOMAN'S. 


Virtuous  Poverty. 

'Life,  had  he  not  his  answer  ?  what  strange  impudence 

Governs  in  man,  when  lust  is  lord  of  him  ! 

Thinks  he  me  mad  ?  'cause  I  have  no  monies  on  earth, 

That  I'll  go  forfeit  my  estate  in  heaven, 

And  live  eternal  beggar  ?  he  shall  pardon  me ; 

That's  my  soul's  jointure ;  I'll  starve  ere  I  sell  that. 

Comfort. 
husband, 


Wake,  wake,  and  let  not  patience  keep  thee  poor, 
Rouse  up  thy  spirit  from  this  falling  slumber : 
Make  thy  distress  seem  but  a  weeping  dream, 
And  this  the  opening  morning  of  thy  comforts. 


15?  KXCLISII   DRAM  \TIC   POETS. 


Wipe  the  salt  dew  from  off  thy  careful  eyes, 
And  drink  a  draught  of  gladness  next  thy  heart 
To  expel  the  infection  of  all  poisonous  sorrows. 

Good  and  III  Fortune. 
O  my  blessing ! 
I  feel  a  hand  of  mercy  lift  me  up 
Out  of  a  world  of  waters,  and  now  sets  me 
Upon  a  mountain,  where  the  sun  plays  most, 
To  cheer  my  heart  even  as  it  dries  my  limbs. 
What  deeps  I  see  beneath  me  !  in  whose  falls 
Many  a  nimble  mortal  toils, 

And  scarce  can  feed  himself:  the  streams  of  fortune, 
'Gainst  which  he  tugs  in  vain,  still  beat  him  down, 
And  will  not  suffer  him  (past  hand  to  mouth) 
To  lift  his  arm  to  his  posterities'  blessing. 
I  see  a  careful  sweat  run  in  a  ring 
About  his  temples,  but  all  will  not  do : 
For  till  some  happy  means  relieve  his  state, 
There  he  must  stick  and  bide  the  wrath  of  fate. 

Parting  in  Amity. 

Let  our  Parting 
Be  full  as  charitable  as  our  meeting  was ; 
That  the  pale  envious  world,  glad  of  the  food 
Of  others'  miseries,  civil  dissensions, 
And  nuptial  strifes,  may  not  feed  fat  with  ours. 

Meeting  with  a  Wife  supposed  Dead. 

0  my  reviving  joy  !  thy  quickening  presence 
Makes  the  sad  night  of  threescore  and  ten  years 
Sit  like  a  youthful  spring  upon  my  blood. 

1  cannot  make  thy  welcome  rich  enough 
With  all  the  wealth  of  words. 

Mother's  Forgiveness 

Moth.  Why  do  your  words  start  back  ?  are  they  afraid 
Of  her  that  ever  lov'd  them  ? 

Philiji.  I  have  a  suit  to  you,  Madam. 


THE  WITCH. 


153 


Moth.  You  fiave  told  me  that  already  ;  pray,  what  is  't  ? 
If 't  be  so  great,  my  present  state  refuse  it, 
I  shall  be  abler,  then  command  and  use  it. 
Whatever  't  be,  let  me  have  warning  to  provide  for  't. 

PMlip.  Provide  forgiveness  then,  for  that's  the  want 
-My  conscience  feels.     O,  my  wild  youth  has  led  me 
Into  unnatural  wrongs  against  your  freedom  once. 
1  spent  the  ransom  which  my  father  sent, 
To  set  my  pleasures  free ;  while  you  lay  captive. 

Moth.   And  is  this  all  now  1 
You  use  me  like  a  stranger  :  pray,  stand  up. 

Philip.   Rather  fall  flat :  I  shall  deserve  yet  worse. 

Moth.   Whate'er  your  faults  are,  esteem  me  still  a  friend  ; 
Or  else  you  wrong  me  more  in  asking  pardon 
Than  when  you  did  the  wrong  you  ask'd  it  for  : 
And  since  you  have  prepar'd  me  to  forgive  you. 
Pray  let  me  know  for  what ;  the  first  fault's  nothing. 

Philip.  Here  comes  the  wrong  then  that  drives  home  the  rest. 
I  saw  a  face  at  Antwerp,  that  drew  me 
From  conscience  and  obedience ;  in  that  fray 
I  lost  my  heart,  I  must  needs  lose  my  way. 
There  went  the  ransome,  to  redeem  my  mind  ; 
Stead  of  the  money,  I  brought  over  her  ; 
And  to  cast  mists  before  my  father's  eyes, 
Told  him  it  was  my  sister  (lost  so  long) 
And  that  yourself  was  dead. — You  see  the  wrong. 

Moth.  This  is  but  youthful  still — 
I  forgive  thee 

As  freely  a  3  thou  didst  it.     For  alas, 
This  may  be  call'd  good  dealing,  to  some  parts 
That  love  and  youth  plays  daily  among  sons. 


THE  WITCH  ;    A  TRAGI-COMEDY.     BY    THOMAS    MIDDLETON. 

Hecate,  and  the  other  Witches,  at  their  Charms. 

Hec.  Titty  and  Tiffin,  Suckin 
And  Pidgen,  Liard  and  Robin! 


154  ENGLISH  DRAMATIC  POETS. 

White  spirits,  black  spirits,  grey  spirits,  red  spirits, 
Devil-toad,  devil-ram,  devil-eat,  and  devil-dam, 
Why  Hoppo  and  Stadlin,  Helhvain  and  Puckle  ! 

Stad.  Here,  sweating  at  the  vessel. 

Hec.  Boil  it  well. 

Hop.  It  gallops  now. 

Hec.  Are  the  flames  blue  enough, 
Or  shall  I  use  a  little  seeten*  more  ? 

Stad.  The  nips  of  Fairies  upon  maids'  white  hips 
Are  not  more  perfect  azure. 

Hec.  Tend  it  carefully. 
Send  Stadlin  to  me  with  a  brazen  dish, 
That  I  may  fall  to  work  upon  these  serpents, 
And  squeeze  'em  ready  for  the  second  hour. 
Why,  when  ? 

Stad.     Here's  Stadlin  and  the  dish. 

Hec.  Here  take  this  unbaptized  brat : 
Boil  it  well — preserve  the  fat : 
You  know  'tis  precious  to  transfer 
Our  'nointed  flesh  into  the  air, 
In  moonlight  nights,  o'er  steeple  tops, 
Mountains,  and  pine  trees,  that  like  pricks,  or  stops, 
Seem  to  our  height :  high  towers,  and  roofs  of  princes, 
Like  wrinkles  in  the  earth  :  whole  provinces 
Appear  to  our  sight  then  even  like 
A  russet  mole  upon  some  lady's  cheek. 
When  hundred  leagues  in  air,  we  feast  and  sing, 
Dance,  kiss,  and  coll,  use  everything  : 
What  young  man  can  we  wish  to  pleasure  us, 
But  we  enjoy  him  in  an  Incubus  ? 
Thou  know'st  it,  Stadlin  ? 

Stad.  Usually  that's  done. 

Hec.  Away,  in. 
Go  feed  the  vessel  for  the  second  hour, 

Stad.  Where  be  the  magical  herbs  ? 

Hec.  They  're  down  his  throat,| 
His  mouth  cramm'd  full  ;  his  ears  and  nostrils  stuft. 

*  Seething  f  The  dead  Child's. 


fllK  WITCH.  155 

I  thrust  in  Eleaselinum,  lately 

Aconitum,  frondes  populeas,  and  soot. 

You  may  see  that,  he  looks  so  black  i'  th'  mouth. 

Then  Sium,  Acharum,  Vulgaro  too, 

Dentaphillon,  the  blood  of  a  flitter-mouse, 

Solanum  soninificum  et  oleum. 

Stad.  Then  there's  all,  Hecate. 

Hec.  Is  the  heart  of  wax 
Stuck  full  of  magic  needles  1 

Stad.  'Tis  done,  Hecate. 

Hec.  And  is  the  farmer's  picture,  and  his  wife's, 
Laid  down  to  the  fire  yet  ? 

Stud.   They  are  a  roasting  both  too. 

Hec.  Good  ; 
Then  their  marrows  are  a  melting  subtilly, 
And  three  months'  sickness  sucks  up  life  in  'em. 
They  denied  me  often  flour,  barm,  and  milk, 
Goose-grease  and  tar,  when  1  ne'er  hurt  their  churnings, 
Their  brew-locks  nor  their  batches,  nor  forespoke 
Any  of  their  breedings.     Now  I'll  be  meet  with  'em. 
Seven  of  their  young  pigs  I  have  bewitch'd  already 
Of  the  last  litter,  nine  ducklings,  thirteen  goslings  and  a  hog 
Fell  lame  last  Sunday,  after  even-song  too. 
And  mark  how  their  sheep  prosper ;  or  what  soup 
Each  milch-kine  gives  to  th'  pail  :  I'll  send  these  snakes 
Shall  milk  'em  all  before  hand  :  the  dew'd  skirted  dairy  wench 
Shall  stroke  dry  dugs  for  this,  and  go  home  cursing  : 
I'll  mar  their  sillabubs,  and  swarthy  feastings 
Under  cows'  bellies,  with  the  parish  youths. 

Sebastian  consults  the  Witch  for  a  Charm  to  be  revenged  on  his 

successful  Rival. 

Hec.  Urchins,  elves,  hags,  satires,  pans,  fawns,  silence. 
Kit  with  the  candlestick  ;  tritons,  centaurs,  dwarfs,  imps. 
The  spoon,  the  mare,  the  man  i'  th'  oak,  the  hellwain,  the  fire- 
drake,  the  puckle.     A.  ab.  hur.  hus. 

Seh.  Heaven  knows  with  what  unwillingness  and  hate 
I  enter  this  damn'd  place :  but  such  extremes 


■50  ENGLISH  DRAMATIC  POETS. 

Of  wrongs  in  love  fight  'gainst  religion's  knowledge, 

That  were  I  led  by  this  disease  to  deaths 

As  numberless  as  creatures  that  must  die, 

I  could  not  shun  the  way. — I  know  what  'tis 

To  pity  mad  men  now :  they're  wretched  things 

That  ever  were  created,  if  they  be 

Of  woman's  making  and  her  faithless  vows. 

I  fear  they're  now  a  kissing  :  what's  a  clock  ? 

'Tis  now  but  supper  time  :  but  night  will  come, 

And  all  new-married  couples  make  short  suppers. 

Whate'er  thou  art,  I  have  no  spare  time  to  fear  thee  ; 

My  horrors  are  so  strong  and  great  already 

That  thou  seem'st  nothing  :  Up  and  laze  not ; 

Hadst  thou  my  business,  thou  couldst  ne'er  sit  so  ; 

'Twould  firk  thee  into  air  a  thousand  mile, 

Beyond  thy  ointments :  I  would  [  were  read 

So  much  in  thy  black  pow'r,  as  mine  own  griefs. 

I'm  in  great  need  of  help  :  wilt  give  me  any  ? 

Hec.  Thy  boldness  takes  me  bravely  ;  we  are  all  sworn 
To  sweat  for  such  a  spirit ;  see  ;  I  regard  thee, 
I  rise,  and  bid  thee  welcome.     What's  thy  wish  now  ? 

Seb.  Oh  my  heart  swells  with  "t.     I  must  take  breath  first. 

Hec.  Is  't  to  confound  some  enemy  on  the  seas  ? 
It  may  be  done  to-night.     Stadlin's  within  ; 
She  raises  all  your  sudden  ruinous  storms 
That  shipwreck  barks  ;  and  tears  up  growing  oaks  ; 
Flies  over  houses,  and  takes  Anno  Domini 
Out  of  a  rich  man's  chimney  (a  sweet  place  for  't, 
He  would  be  hang'd  ere  he  would  set  his  own  years  there ; 
They  must  be  chamber'd  in  a  five  pound  picture, 
A  green  silk  curtain  drawn  before  the  eyes  on  't, 
His  rotten  diseas'd  years) !  Or  dost  thou  envy 
The  fat  prosperity  of  any  neighbor  ? 
I'll  call  forth  Hoppo,  and  her  incantation 
Can  straight  destroy  the  young  of  all  his  cattle : 
Blast  vine-yards,  orchards,  meadows ;  or  in  one  night 
Transport  his  dung,  hay,  corn,  by  reeks,  whole  stacks, 
Into  thine  own  ground. 


Till:  WITCH.  lo7 


Seb.  This  would  come  most  richly  now 
To  many  a  country  grazier  :  But  my  envy 
Lies  not  so  low  as  cattle,  corn,  or  wines : 
'Twill  trouble  your  best  pow'rs  to  give  me  ease. 

Hec.  Is  it  to  starve  up  generation  ? 
To  strike  a  barrenness  in  man  or  woman  ? 

Seb.  Hah! 

Hec.  Hah  !  Did  you  feel  me  there  ?  I  knew  your  grief. 

Seb.  Can  there  be  such  things  done  ? 

Hec.  Are  these  the  skins 
Of  serpents  ?  these  of  snakes  ? 

Seb.  I  see  they  are. 

Hec.  So  sure  into  what  house  these  are  convey'd 
Knit  with  these  charms,  and  retentive  knots, 
Neither  the  man  begets,  nor  woman  breeds, 
No,  nor  performs  the  least  desire  of  wedlock, 
Being  then  a  mutual  duty  ;  I  could  give  thee 
Chiroconita,  Adincantida, 
Archimadon,  Marmaritm,  Calicia, 
Which  I  could  sort  to  villainous  barren  ends  ; 
But  this  leads  the  same  way  :  More  I  could  instance  : 
As  the  same  needles  thrust  into  their  pillows 
That  sow  and  sock  up  dead  men  in  their  sheets : 
A  privy  grissel  of  a  man  that  hangs 
After  sun  set :  Good,  excellent :  yet  all's  there.  Sir. 

Seb.  You  could  not  do  a  man  that  special  kindness 
To  part  them  utterly,  now  ?  Could  you  do  that  1 

Hec.  No  :  time  must  do  't :  we  cannot  disjoin  wedlock  ; 
'Tis  of  heaven's  fastening  :  well  may  we  raise  jars, 
Jealousies,  strifes,  and  heart-burning  disagreements, 
Like  a  thick  scurf  o'er  life,  as  did  our  master 
Upon  that  patient*  miracle  ;  but  the  work  itself 
Our  power  cannot  disjoin. 

Seb.  I  depart  happy 
In  what  I  have  then,  being  constrain 'd  to  this : 
And  grant,  you  greater  powers  that  dispose  men 

*  Job. 


Ir»S  ENGLISH    DRAMATIC  POETS. 


That  I  may  never  need  this  hag  again.  [Exit. 

Hcc.   I  know  he  loves  me  not,  nor  there's  no  hope  on  't; 
Tis  for  the  love  of  mischief  I  do  this: 
And  that  we  are  sworn  to  the  first  oath  we  take. 

Hecate,  Stadlin,  Hoppo,  with  the  other  Witches,  preparing  for 
their  midnight  journey  through  the  Air.  Firestone,  Hecate's 
Son. 

Hcc.  The  moon's  a  gallant :  see  how  brisk  she  rides. 

Stad.   Here's  a  rich  evening,  Hecate. 

Hcc.  Ay,  is  't  not,  wenches, 
To  take  a  journey  of  five  thousand  mile  ? 

Hop.  Ours  will  be  more  to-night. 

Hec.  Oh  'twill  be  precious. 
Heard  you  the  owl  yet  ! 

Slacl.  Briefly  in  the  copse, 
\s  we  came  through  now. 

Hec.   'Tis  high  time  for  us  then. 

id.   There  was  a  bat  hung  at  my  lips  three  times 
As  we  came  through  the  woods,  and  drank  her  fill. 
Old  Puckle  saw  her. 

Her.  You  are  fortunate  still  : 
The  very  screech  owl  lights  upon  your  shoulder, 
And  wooes  you  like  a  pigeon.     Are  you  furnish'd  ? 
Have  you  your  ointments  ? 

Stad.  All. 

Hcc.  Prepare  to  flight  then  : 
I  '11  overtake  you  swiftly. 

Stad.  Hie  thee,  Hecate  : 
We  shall  be  up  betimes. 

Hsc.  I'll  reach  you  quickly.  [The  other  Witches  mount. 

Fire.  They  are  all  going  a  birding  to-night.  They  talk  of 
fowls  in  the  air,  that  fly  by  day  ;  I  am  sure,  they  '11 
be  a  company  of  foul  sluts  there  to-night.  If  we  have 
not  mortality  offer'd,*  I  '11  be  hanged;  for  they  are  able 
to  putrify  it,  to  infect  a  whole  region.     She  spies  me  now. 

*  Probably  the  true  reading  is  after  V. 


THE  WITCH.  13S 

Hec.  What,  Firestone,  our  sweet  son  ? 

Fire.  A  little  sweeter  than  some  of  you  ;  or  a  dunghill  were  too 

good  for  me. 
Hec.  How  much  hast  here  1 
Fire.  Nineteen,  and  all  brave  plump  ones  ;  besides  six  lizards, 

and  three  serpentine  eggs. 
Hec.  Dear  and  sweet  boy  :  what  herbs  hast  thou  ? 
Fire.  I  have  some  Marmartin  and  Mandragon. 
Hec.  Marmaritin  and  Mandragora  thou  wouldst  say. 
Fire.  Here  's  Pannax  too  :  I  thank  thee,  my  pan  akes  I  am  sure 
With  kneeling  down  to  cut  'em. 

Hec.  And  Selago, 
Hedge  hysop  too  :  how  near  he  goes  my  cuttings  ! 
Wore  they  all  cropl  by  moon-light? 

Fire.   Every  blade  of 'em,  or  I  am  a  moon-calf,  mother. 
Hec.   Hie  thee  home  with  'em. 
Look  well  to  the  house  to-night  ;   I  am  for  aloft. 

Fire.   Aloft,  quoth  you  1    1  would  you  would    break  your  neck 

once,    that   I   might    have    all    quickly.       Hark,    hark, 

mother  ;  they  are  above  the  Steeple  already,  flying  over 

your  head  with  a  noise  of  musicians. 

Hec.  They  are  indeed.     Help  me,  help  me  ;   I'm  too  late  else. 

Song  in  the  Air. 

Come  away,  come  away  ; 
Hecate,  Hecate,  come  away. 

Hec.  I  come,  I  come,  I  come,  I  come, 
With  all  the  speed  I  may, 
With  all  the  speed  I  may. 
Where's  Stadlin? 
[Above.]  Here. 

Hec.  Where's  Puckle  ? 

[Above.] Here  : 

And  Hoppo  too,  and  Hellwain  too  : 
We  lack  but  you  ;  we  lack  but  you  : 
Come  away,  make  up  the  count. 

Hec.   I  will  but  'noint,  and  then  I  mount. 

[A  spirit  like  a  Cat  descends. 


160  ENGLISH  DRAMATIC  POETS. 

[^4iot'c] There's  one  come  down  to  fetch  his  dues  ; 

A  kiss,  a  coll,  a  slip  of  blood  : 

And  why  thou  stay'st  so  long,  I  muse,  I  muse, 

Since  the  air's  so  sweet  and  good. 

Hec.  Oh  art  thou  come  ? 
"What  news,  what  news  ? 

Spirit.  All  goes  still  to  our  delight : 
Either  come,  or  else 
Refuse,  refuse. 

Hec.  Now  I  am  furnish'd  for  the  flight. 

Fire    Hark,  hark,  the  Cat  sings  a  brave  treble  in  her  own  lan» 
guage. 

Hec.   [Going  tip.]  Now  I  go,  now  I  fly, 
Malkin  my  sweet  Spirit  and  I. 
Oh  what  a  dainty  pleasure  'tis 
To  ride  in  the  air 
When  the  moon  shines  fair, 
And  sing,  and  dance,  and  toy,  and  kiss  : 
Over  woods,  high  rocks,  and  mountains, 
Over  seas  (our  mistress'  fountains), 
Over  steep  towers  and  turrets, 
We  fly  by  night  'mongst  troops  of  Spirits. 
No  ring  of  bells  to  our  ears  sounds, 
No  howls  of  wolves,  no  yelps  of  hounds  ; 
No,  not  the  noise  of  water's-breach, 
Or  cannon's  throat,  our  height  can  reach. 

[^4Sore.] No  ring  of  bells,  &c. 

Fire.   Well,  mother,  I  thank  your  kindness;   you  must  be 
Gamboling  in  the  air,  and  leave  me  to  walk  here  like  a  fool  and  a 
mortal.  *  *  * 

A  Duchess  consults  the  Witcli  about  inflicting  a  sudden  Death 
Duchess.     Hecate.     Firestone. 
Hec.  What  death  is  't  you  desire  for  Almachildes  ? 
Duch.   A  sudden  and  a  subtle. 
Hec.  Then  I  've  fitted  you. 
Here  lie  the  gifts  of  both  ;  sudden  and  subtle  : 
His  picture  made  in  wax,  and  gently  molten 


THE  WITCH.  1G1 


By  a  blue  fire,  kindled  with  dead  men's  eyes, 
Will  waste  him  by  degrees. 
Duch.  In  wbat  time  prithee  1 
Hec.  Perhaps  in  a  moon's  progress. 
Duch.  What,  a  month  ? 
Out  upon  pictures,  if  they  be  so  tedious : 
Give  me  things  with  some  life. 
Hec.  Then  seek  no  farther. 

Duch.   This  must  be  done  with  speed,  dispatch'd  this  night, 
If  it  be  possible. 

Hec.  I  have  it  for  you  : 
Here  's  that  will  do  't :  stay  but  perfection's  time, 
And  that'  s  not  five  hours  hence. 
Duch.  Canst  thou  do  this  ? 
Hec.  Can  I? 

Duch.  I  mean,  so  closely  1 
Hec.  So  closely  do  you  mean  too  ? 
Duch.  So  artfully,  so  cunningly  ? 
Hec.   Worse  and  worse.     Doubts  and  incredulities, 
They  make  me  mad.     Let  scrupulous  creatures  know  : 
Cum  volui,  ripis  ipsis  mirantibus,  amnes 
In  fontes  rediere  suos  ;  concussaque  sisto, 
Stantia  concutio  cantu  freta ;  nubila  pello, 
Nubilaque  induco  :  vcntos  abigoque,  vocoque. 
Vipereas  rumpo  verbis  et  carmine  fauces  ; 
Et  sylvas  moveo,  jubeoque  tremiscere  montes, 
Et  mugiere  solum,  manesque  exire  sepulchris. 
Te  quoque,  Luna,  traho. 
Can  you  doubt  me  then,  daughter  ; 

That  can  make  mountains  tremble,  miles  of  woods  walk  : 
Whole  earth's  foundations  bellow,  and  the  spirits 
Of  the  entomb'd  to  burst  out  from  their  marbles ; 
Nay,  draw  yon  Moon  to  my  involv'd  designs  ? 

Fire.   I  know  as  well  as  can  be  when  my  mother  's  mad,  and 
our 
Great  cat  angry  ;   for  one  spits  French  then,  and  the  other  spits 
Latin. 
Duch.   I  did  not  doubt  you,  mother. 
vart  i.  12 


162  ENGLISH   DR  \M  V.TIC  POETS. 


Hec.  No  !  what,  did  you  ' 
My  power  's  so  firm,  it  is  not  *o  be  question'd. 

Duck.  Forgive  what  a  past  ;  and  now  I  know  th'*ofFensiveness 
That  vexes  art,  I    11  shun  the  occasion  ever. 

Hec.  Leave  all  to  me  and  my  five  sisters,  daughter. 
It  shall  be  convey  "d  in  at  h<>\\  let-time. 
Take  you  no  can'.     My  spirits  know  their  moments: 
Raven  or  screech-owl  never  fly  by  the  door 
But  they  call  in  (I  thank  'cm)  and  they  lose  not  by  't. 
I  give  'em  barley  soak'd  in  infant's  blood  : 
They  shall  have  semina  cum  sanguine, 
Their  gorge  cramm'd  full,  if  they  come  once  to  our  house  : 
We  are  no  niffsard. 

Fire.  They  fare  but  too  well  when  they  come  hither  :  they  ate 
up  as  much  the  other  night  as  would  have  made  me  a 
good  conscionable  pudding. 

Hec.   Give  me  some  lizard's  brain,  quickly,  Firestone. 
Where  's  grannam  Stadlin,  and  all  the  rest  of  the  sisters  ? 

Fire.  All  at  hand,  forsooth. 

[  The  other  Witches  appear. 

Hec.  Give  me  Marmaritin  ;  some  Bear-breech  :  when  ? 

Fire.  Here  's  Bear-breech  and  lizard's  brain,  forsooth. 

Hec.  Into  the  vessel ; 
And  fetch  three  ounces  of  the  red-hair'd  girl 
I  kill'd  last  midnight. 

Fire.   Whereabout,  sweet  mother  ? 

Hec.  Hip  ;  hip,  or  flank.     Where  's  the  Acopus  1 

Fire.  You  shall  have  Acopus,  forsooth. 

Hec.  Stir,  stir  about ;  whilst  I  begin  the  charm. 

A  Charm  Song  about  a  Vessel. 

Hec.  Black  spirits  and  white,  red  spirits  and  grey  ; 
Mingle,  mingle,  mingle,  you  that  mingle  may. 
Titty,  Tiffin,  keep  it  stiff*  in  ; 
Fire-drake,  Puekey.  make  it  lucky; 
Liard,  Robin,  you  must  bob  in. 
Round,  around,  around,  about,  about ; 
All  111  come  running  in,  all  Good  keep  out. 


THE  WITCH.  163 


First  Witch.  Here  's  the  blood  of  a  bat. 

Hoc.  Put  in  that,  oh,  put  in  that. 

Sec.  Witch.  Here  's  libbard's  bane. 

Hec.  Put  in  again. 

First  Witch.  The  juice  of  toad  ;  the  oil  of  adder. 

Sec.  Witch.  Those  will  make  the  younker  madder. 

Hec.  Put  in,  there  's  all,  and  rid  the  stench. 

Fire.  Nay,  here  's  three  ounces  of  the  red-hair'd  wench. 

AIL  Round,  around,  around,  &c. 

Hec.  So,  so,  enough  :  into  the  vessel  with  it. 
There  ;   't  hath  the  true  perfection  :  I  am  so  light* 
At  any  mischief,  there's  no  villainy 
But  is  a  tune  methinks. 

Fire.  A  tune  !  'tis  to  the  tune  of  damnation  then,  I  warrant 

you,  i 

And  that  song  hath  a  villainous  burthen. 

Hec.  Come  my  sweet  sisters,  let  the  air  strike  our  tune  ; 
Whilst  we  show  reverence  to  yon  peeping  moon. 

[Tfie  Witches  dance,  et  Exeunt, 

[Though  some  resemblance  may  be  traced  between  the  Charms  in  Mac- 
beth, and  the  incantations  in  this  Play,  which  is  supposed  to  have  preceded 
it,  this  coincidence  will  not  detract  much  from  the  originality  of  Shakspeare. 
His  witches  are  distinguished  from  the  Witches  of  Middleton  by  essential 
differences.  These  are  creatures  to  whom  man  or  woman  plotting  some 
dire  mischief  might  resort  for  occasional  consultation.  Those  originate 
deeds  of  blood,  and  begin  bad  impulses  to  men.  From  the  moment  that 
their  eyes  first  meet  with  Macbeth's,  he  is  spell  bound.  That  meeting 
sways  his  destiny.  He  can  never  break  the  fascination.  These  Witches 
can  hurt  the  body  :  those  have  power  over  the  soul. — Hecate  in  Middleton 
has  a  Son,  a  low  buffoon :  the  hags  of  Shakspeare  have  neither  child  of  their 
own,  nor  seem  to  be  descended  from  any  parent.  They  are  foul  Anomalies, 
of  whom  we  know  not  whence  they  are  sprung,  nor  whether  they  have 
beginning  or  ending.  As  they  are  without  human  passions,  so  they  seem 
to  be  without  human  relations.  They  come  with  thunder  and  lightning, 
and  vanish  to  airy  music.  This  is  all  we  know  of  them. — Except  Hecate, 
they  have  no  names  ;  which  heightens  their  mysteriousness.  Their  names, 
and  some  of  the  properties,  which  Middleton  lias  given  to  his  hags,  excite 
smiles.  The  Weird  Sisters  are  serious  things.  Their  presence  cannot  co- 
exist with  mirth.  But,  in  a  lesser  degree,  the  Witches  of  Middleton  are 
fine  creations.  Their  power  too  is,  in  some  measure,  over  the  mind.  They 
raise  jars,  jealousies,  strifes,  like  a  thick  scurf  o'er  life.] 


*  Light-hearted. 


164  ENGLISH  DRAMATIC  POETS. 

THE  WITCH  OF  EDMONTON;  A  TRAGI-COMEDY.    BY  WILLIAM 
ROWLEY,  THOMAS  DECKER,  JOHN  FORD,  &c. 

Mother  Sawyer  (before  she  turns  Witch)  alone. 

Saw.   And  why  on  me  ?  why  should  the  envious  world 
Throw  all  their  scandalous  malice  upon  me  ? 
'Cause  I  am  poor,  deform 'd,  and  ignorant, 
And  like  a  bow  buckled  and  bent  together 
By  some  more  strong  in  mischiefs  than  myself; 
Must  I  for  that  be  made  a  common  sink 
For  all  the  filth  and  rubbish  of  men's  tongues 
To  fall  and  run  into  1     Some  call  me  Witch, 
And  being  ignorant,  of  myself,  they  go 
About  to  teach  me  how  to  be  one :  unnnjr 
That  my  bad  tongue  (by  their  bad  usage  made  so) 
Forespeaks  their  cattle,  doth  bewitch  their  corn, 
Themselves,  their  servants,  and  their  babes  at  nurse  : 
This  they  enforce  upon  me  ;  and  in  part 
Make  me  to  credit  it.* 

Banks,  a  Farmer,  enters. 

Banks.  Out,  out  upon  thee,  Witch. 

Saw.  Dost  call  me  Witch  1 

Banks.  I  do,  Witch,  I  do  : 
And  worse  I  would,  knew  I  a  name  more  hateful. 
What  makest  thou  upon  my  ground  ? 

Saw.  Gather  a  few  rotten  sticks  to  warm  me. 

Banks.  Down  with  them  when  I  bid  thee,  quickly  ; 
I'  11  make  thy  bones  rattle  in  thy  skin  else. 

Saw.  You  won't  ?  churl,  cut-throat,  miser :  there  they  be. 
Would  they  stuck  cross  thy  throat,  thy  bowels,  thy  maw, 
thy  midriff 

Banks.  Say'st  thou  me  so?     Hag,  out  of  my  ground. 

Saw.  Dost  strike  me,   slave,   curmudgeon  1     Now  thy  bones 
aches,  thy  joints  cramps, 
And  convulsions  stretch  and  crack  thy  sinews. 

*  This  Soliloquy  anticipates  all  that  Addison  has  said  in  the  conclusion 
of  the  117th  Spectator. 


THE  WITCH  OF  EDMONTON.  ltjj 

»— --  ■      ■  — ■■■  -  ■  — 

Banks.  Cursing,  thou  hag  ?  take  that,  and  that.  [Exit. 

Saw.  Strike,  do  :  and  withered  may  that  hand  and  arm 
Whose  blows  have  lam'd  mo,  drop  from  the  rotten  trunk. 
Abuse  me  !  beat  me  !  call  me  hag  and  witch  ! 
What  is  the  name,  where,  and  by  what  art  learn'd  ? 
What  spells,  or  charms,  or  invocations, 
May  the  thing  call'd  Familiar  be  purchased  ? 

■ 1  am  shunn'd 

And   haled  like  a  sickness:  made  a  scorn 

To  all  degrees  and  sexes.     I  have  heard  old  beldams 

Talk  of  Familiars  in  the  shape  of  mice, 

Rats,  ferrets,  weasels,  and  I  wot  not  what, 

That  have  appear'd  :  and  suck'd,  some  say,  their  blood. 

But  by  what  means  they  came  acquainted  with  them, 

I'm  now  ignorant.     Would  some  power  good  or  bad 

Instruct  me  which  way  I  might  be  reveng'd 

Upon  this  churl,  I'd  go  out  of  myself, 

And  give  this  fury  leave  to  dwell  within 

This  ruined  cottage,  ready  to  fall  with  age  : 

Abjure  all  goodness,  be  at  hate  with  prayer, 

And  study  curses,  imprecations, 

Blasphemous  speeches,  oaths,  detested  oaths, 

Or  anything  that's  ill ;  so  I  might  work 

Revenge  upon  this  miser,  this  black  cur, 

That  barks,  and  bites,  and  sucks  the  very  blood 

Of  me,  and  of  my  credit.     'Tis  all  one 

To  be  a  witch  as  to  be  counted  one. 

She  gets  a  familial-  which  serves  her  in  the  likeness  of  a  Black  Dog 

Mother  Sawyer.     Familiar. 
Saic.  I  am  dried  up 
With  cursing  and  with  madness;  and  have  yet 
No  blood  to  moisten  these  sweet  lips  of  thine. 
Stand  on  thine  hind-legs  up.      Kiss  me,  my  Tommy  ; 
And  rub  away  some  wrinkles  on  my  brow. 
By  making  my  old  ribs  to  shrug  for  joy 
Of  thy  fine  tricks.     What  hast  thou  done  ?     Let's  tickle. 
Hast  thou  struck  the  horse  lame  as  I  bid  thee  ? 


106  ENGLISH   DRAMATIC  POKTS. 


Famil.  Yes,  and  nipt  the  sucking-child. 

Saw.  Ho,  ho,  my  dainty, 
My  little  pearl.     No  lady  loves  her  hound, 
Monkey,  or  parakeet,  as  I  do  thee. 

Famil.  The  maid  has  been  churning  butter  nine  hours,  but  it 
shall  not  come. 

Saw.  Let  'em  cat  cheese  and  choak. 

Famil.  I  had  rare  sport 
Among  the  clowns  in  the  morrice. 

Saw.  I  could  dance 
Out  of  my  skin  to  hear  thee.     But,  my  curl-pate, 

That  jade,  that  foul-tongued Nan  Rateliff, 

Who,  for  a  little  soap  lick'd  by  my  sow, 

Struck,  and  had  almost  lamed  it :  did  not  I  charge  thee 

To  pinch  that  quean  to  the  heart  ?     *     *     *     * 

Her  Familiar  absents  himself:  site  invokes  him. 

Saw.  Not  see  me  in  three  days  ? 

I'm  lost  without  my  Tomalin  ;   prithee  come; 

Revenge  to  me  is  sweeter  far  than  life  ; 

Thou  art  my  raven,  on  whose  coal-black  wings 

Revenge  comes  flying  to  me  :  Oh,  my  best  love. 

I  am  on  fire  (even  in  the  midst  of  ice) 

Raking  my  blood  up,  till  my  shrunk  knees  feel 

Thy  curl'd  head  leaning  on  them.     Come  then,  my  darling, 

If  in  the  air  thou  hover'st,  fall  upon  me 

In  some  dark  cloud  ;   and,  as  I  oft  have  seen 

Dragons  and  serpents  in  the  elements, 

Appear  thou  now  so  to  me.     Art  thou  i'  the  sea  ! 

Muster  up  all  the  monsters  from  the  deep, 

And  be  the  ugliest  of  them  :  so  that  my  bulch 

Show  but  his  swarth  cheek  to  me,  let  earth  cleave, 

And  break  from  hell,  I  care  not ;  could  I  run 

Like  a  swift  powder-mine  beneath  the  world, 

Up  would  I  blow  it,  all  to  find  out  thee, 

Though  I  lay  ruin'd  in  it. — Not  yet  come  ? 

I  must  then  fall  to  my  old  prayer  :  sanctibiceter  nomen  tuum. 


ATHEIST'S  TRAGEDY  i07 


He  comes  in  White. 
Saw.  Why  dost  thou  thus  appear  to  me  in  white, 
As  if  thou  wert  the  ghost  of  my  dear  love  1 

Famil.  I  am  clogged,  list  not  to  tell  thee,  yet  to  torment  thee, 
My  whiteness  puts  thee  in  mind  of  thy  winding  sheet. 
Saw.  Am  I  near  death  ? 
Famil.  Be  blasted  with  the  news. 
Whiteness  is   day's  footboy,  a  forerunner  to   light,  which  shows 
thy  old    rivel'd   face  :  villainies   are  stript   naked,   the 
witch  must  be  beaten  out  of  her  cockpit. 
Saw.  Why  to  mine  eyes  art  thou  a  flag  of  truce  ? 
I  am  at  peace  with  none ;   'tis  the  black  color, 
Or  none,  which  I  tight  under  :  I  do  not  like 
Thy  puritan-paleness. 

[Mother  Sawyer  differs  from  the  hags  of  Middleton  or  Shakspeare.  She 
is  the  plain  traditional  old  woman  Witch  of  our  ancestors  ;  poor,  deformed 
and  ignorant;  the  terror  of  villages,  herself  amenable  to  a  justice.  That 
should  be  a  hardy  sheriff,  with  the  power  of  a  county  at  his  heels,  that 
would  lay  hands  on  the  Weird  Sisters  They  are  of  another  jurisdiction. 
But  upon  the  common  and  received  opinion  the  author  (or  authors)  have 
engrafted  strong  fancy.  There  is  something  frightfully  earnest  in  her  invo- 
cations to  the  Familiar.] 


THE  ATHEIST'S  TRAGEDY ;  OR,  THE  HONEST  MAN'S 
REVENGE.  BY  CYRIL  TOURNEUR. 

If  .imville  (the  Atheist)  with  the  aid  of  his  wicked  instrument,  Borachio, 
7iiurders  his  Brother,  Montferrers,  for  his  Estate.  After  the  deed  is 
done,  Borachio  and  fie  talk  together  of  the  circumstances  which  attended 
the  murder. 

D 'Am.  Here's  a   sweet  comedy,   begins  with   O  dolentis,  and 

concludes  with  ha,  ha,  he. 
Bor.  Ha,  ha,  he. 
D'Am.  O  my   echo  !  I  could  stand   reverberating  this  sweet 

musical  air  of  joy,  till  I  had  perished  my  sound  lungs 

with  violent  laughter.     Lovely  night-iaven,  thou  hast 

seized  a  carcase  ? 


1G8  ENGLISH  DRAMATIC  POETS. 


Bor.  Put  him  outon's  pain.  I  lay  so  fitly  underneath  the  bank 
from  whence  he  fell,  that  ere  his  faltering  tongue  could 
utter  double  O,  I  knocked  out  his  brains  with  this  fair 
ruby;  and  had  another  stone  just  of  this  form  and  big- 
ness ready,  that  1  had  laid  in  the  broken  scull  upon  the 
ground  for  his  pillow,  against  the  which  they  thought  he 
fell  and  perished. 
D'Am.  Upon  this  ground  I'll  build  my  manor  house, 
And  this  shall  be  chiefest  corner  stone. 

Bor.  This  crown'd  the  most  judicious  murder,  that 
The  brain  of  man  was  e'er  deliver'd  of. 

jy Am.  Aye,  mark  the  plot.     Not  any  circumstance 
That  stood  within  the  reach  of  the  design, 
Of  persons,  dispositions,  matter,  time, 
Or  place,  but  by  this  brain  of  mine  was  made 
An  instrumental  help  ;   yet  nothing  from 
The  induction  to  the  accomplishment  seem'd  forced, 
Or  done  o'  purpose,  but  by  accident. 

[Here  they  reckon  up  the  several  circumstances. 
Bor.  Then  darkness  did 
Protect  the  execution  of  the  work 
Both  from  prevention  and  discovery. 

D 'Am.  Here  was  a  murder  bravely  carried  through 
The  eye  of  observation,  unobserved. 

Bor.  And  those  ftiat  saw  the  passage  of  it,  made 
The  instruments  ;  yet  knew  not  what  they  did. 

D 'Am.  That  power  of  rule,  philosophers  ascribe 
To  him  they  call  the  Supreme  of  the  Stars, 
Making  their  influences  governors 
Of  sublunary  creatures,  when  theirselves 
Are  senseless  of  their  operations.  [Thunder  and  lightning. 

What  !  dost  start  at  thunder  1  Credit  my  belief,  'tis  a  mere 

effect  of  nature,  an  exhalation  hot  and  dry,  involved 
within  a  watry  vapor  in  the  middle  region  of  the  air, 
whose  coldness  congealing  that  thick  moisture  to  a 
cloud,  the  angry  exhalation  shut  within  a  prison  of  con- 
trary quality,  strives  to  be   free ;  and  with  the  violent 


ATHEISTS  TRAGEDY.  169 


eruption  through  the  grossness  of  that  cloud,  makes  this 
noise  we  hear. 

Bor.  'Tis  a  fearful  noise. 

IP  Am.  'Tis  a  brave  noise ;  and,  methinks,  graces  our  accom- 
plished project,  as  a  peal  of  ordnance  does  a  triumph. 
It  speaks  encouragement.  Now  nature  shows  thee  how 
it  favor'd  our  performance :  to  forbear  this  noise  when 
we  set  forth,  because  it  should  not  terrify  my  brother's 
going  home,  which  would  have  dashed  our  purpose :  to 
forbear  this  lightning  in  our  passage,  lest  it  should  ha' 
warned  him  of  the  pitfall.  Then  propitious  nature 
winked  at  our  proceeding  ;  now,  it  doth  express  how 
that  forbearance  favor'd  our  success.       ***** 

Drowned  Soldier. 

walking  upon  the  fatal  shore, 

Among  the  slaughter'd  bodies  of  their  men, 
Which  the  full-stomach'd  sea  had  cast  upon 
The  sands,  it  was  my  unhappy  chance  to  light 
Upon  a  face,  whose  favor  when  it  lived 
My  astonish'd  mind  inform'd  me  I  had  seen. 
He  lay  in  his  armor,  as  if  that  had  been 
His  coffin  ;  and  the  weeping  sea  (like  one 
Whose  milder  temper  doth  lament  the  death 
Of  him  whom  in  his  rage  he  slew)  runs  up 
The  shore,  embraces  him,  kisses  his  cheek  ; 
Goes  back  again,  and  forces  up  the  sands 
To  bury  him  ;  and  every  time  it  parts, 
Sheds  tears  upon  him  ;  till  at  last  (as  if 
It  could  no  longer  endure  to  see  the  man 
Whom  it  had  slain,  yet  loath  to  leave  him)  with 
A  kind  of  unresolv'd  unwilling  pace, 
Winding  her  waves  one  in  another  (like 
A  man  that  folds  his  arms,  or  wrings  his  hands 
For  grief)  ebb'd  from  the  body,  and  descends  ; 
As  if  it  would  sink  down  into  the  earth, 
Aud  hide  itself  for  shame  of  such  a  deed.* 

*  This  way  of  description,  which  seems  unwilling  ever  to  leave  off 


170  ENGLISH    DRAMATIC  POETS. 


Match  Refused. 

I  entertain  the  offer  of  this  match, 

With  purpose  to  confirm  it  presently. 

I  have  already  mov'd  it  to  my  daughter ; 

Her  soft  excuses  savor'd  at  the  first 

Methought  hut  of  a  modest  innocence 

Of  blood,  whose  unmov'd  stream  was  never  drawn 

Into  the  current  of  affection.     But  when  I 

Replied  with  more  familiar  arguments, 

Thinking  to  make  her  apprehension  bold  ; 

Her  modest  blush  feU  to  a  pale  dislike, 

And  she  refus'd  it  with  such  confidence, 

As  if  she  had  been  prompted  by  a  love 

Inclining  firmly  to  some  other  man  ; 

And  in  that  obstinacy  she  remains. 

Love  and  Courage. 
O  do  not  wrong  him.     'Tis  a  generous  mind 
That  led  his  disposition  to  the  war  ; 
For  gentle  love  and  noble  courage  are 
So  near  allied,  that  one  begets  another  : 
Or  love  is  sister,  and  courage  is  the  brother. 
Could  I  affect  him  better  than  before, 
His  soldier's  heart  would  make  me  love  him  more. 


THE  REVENGER'S  TRAGEDY.     BY  CYRIL  TOURNEUR. 
Vindici  addresses  the  Scull  of  his  dead  Lady. 

Thou  sallow  picture  of  my  poison'd  love, 
My  study's  ornament,  thou  shell  of  death, 
Once  the  bright  face  of  my  betroth'd  lady, 
When  life  and  beauty  naturally  fill'd  out 
These  ragged  imperfections: 

weaving  parenthesis  within  parenthesis,  was  brought  to  its  height  by  Sir 
Philip  Sidney.  He  seems  to  have  set  the  example  to  Shakspeare.  Many 
beautiful  instances  may  be  found  all  over  the  Arcadia.  These  bountiful 
Wits  always  give  fu'.l  measure,  pressed  down  and  running  over 


THE  REVENGER'S  TRAGEDY.  171 

When  two  heav'n-pointed  diamonds  were  set 

In  those  unsightly  rings then  'twas  a  face 

So  far  beyond  the  artificial  shine 

Of  any  woman's  bought  complexion, 

That  the  uprightest  man  (if  such  there  be 

That  sin  but  seven  times  a  day)  broke  custom, 

And  made  up  eight  with  looking  after  her. 

O  she  was  able  to  ha'  made  a  usurer's  son 

Melt  all  his  patrimony  in  a  kiss ; 

And  what  his  father  fifty  years  told. 

To  have  consum'd,  and  yet  his  suit  been  cold. 

Again. 

Here  's  an  eye, 
Able  to  tempt  a  great  man — to  serve  God  ; 
A  pretty  hanging  lip,  that  has  forgot  now  to  dissemble. 
Methinks  this  mouth  should  make  a  swearer  tremble  ; 
A  drunkard  clasp  his  teeth,  and  not  undo  'em, 
To  sutler  wet  damnation  to  run  thro'  'em, 
Here  's  a  check  keeps  her  color  let  the  wind  go  whistle  : 
Spout  rain,  we  fear  thee  not :  be  hot  or  cold, 
All  's  one  with  us :  and  is  not  he  absurd, 
Whose  fortunes  are  upon  their  faces  set, 
That  fear  no  other  God  but  wind  and  wet  ? 
Does  the  silk- worm  expend  her  yellow  labors 
For  thee  ?  for  thee  does  she  undo  herself? 
Are  lordships  sold  to  maintain  ladyships, 
For  the  poor  benefit  of  a  bewitching  minute  ? 
Why  does  yon  fellow  falsify  highways, 
And  put  his  life  between  the  judge's  lips, 
To  refine  such  a  thing  ?   keep  his  horse  and  men, 
To  beat  their  valors  for  her  ? 
Surely  we  're  all  mad  people,  and  they 
Whom  we  think  are,  are  not. 
Does  every  proud  and  self-affecting  dame 
Camphire  her  face  for  this  ?  and  grieve  her  maker 
In  sinful  baths  of  milk,  when  many  an  infant  starves, 
For  her  superfluous  outside,  for  all  this  ? 


17-2  i.  3H   DR  \:.l  ITIC  POETS. 


Who  now  bids  twenty  pound  a  night  ?  prepares 

Music,  perfumes,  and  sweet  meats  ?  all  are  hush'd.  < 

Thou  may'st  lie  chaste  now !  it  were  fine,  methinks, 

To  have  thee  seen  at  revels,  forgetful  feasts, 

And  unclean  brothels :  sure  'twould  fright  the  sinner, 

And  make  him  a  good  coward  :  put  a  reveller 

Out  of  his  antick  amble, 

And  cloy  an  epicure  with  empty  dishes, 

Here  might  a  scornful  and  ambitious  woman 

Look  through  and  through  herself. — See  ladies,  with  false  forms, 

You  deceive  men,  but  cannot  deceive  worms.* 

Vindici,  having  disguised  himself,  makes  trial  of  his    Sister  Castiza's 
virtue  ;  and  afterwards  of  his  Mother's. 

Vindici.     Castiza. 

Vin.  Lady,  the  best  of  wishes  to  your  sex, 
Fair  skins  and  new  gowns.  [  Offers  her  a  letter. 

Cast.  Oh,  they  shall  thank  you,  Sir. 
Whence  this  ? 

Vin.  Oh,  from  a  dear  and  worthy  friend. 

Cast.  From  whom  ? 

Vin.  The  duke's  son. 

Cast.  Receive  that.  [A  Box  o'  the  Ear  to  her  Brother. 

I  swore  I  would  put  anger  in  my  hand. 
And  pass  the  virgin  limits  of  myself, 
To  him  that  next  appear'd  in  that  base  office, 
To  be  his  sin's  attorney.     Bear  to  him 
That  figure  of  my  hate  upon  thy  cheek, 
Whilst  'tis  yet  hot,  and  I'll  reward  thee  for  't : 
Tell  him  my  honor  shall  have  a  rich  name, 

*  The  male  and  female   Skeleton   in   Gondibert   is   the  finest  lecture  of 
mortification  which  has  been  read  from  bones. 

This  dismal  gallery,  lofty,  long  and  wide, 

Was  hung  with  Skeletons  of  every  kind  ; 
Human,  and  all  that  learned  human  pride 

Thinks  made  to  obey  man's  high  immortal  mind. 
Yet.  on  that  wall  hangs  He,  too,  who  so  thought: 

And  she,  dried  by  Him,  who  that  He  obey'd, 


THE  REVENGER'S  TRAGEDY.  173 


When  several  harlots  shall  share  his  with  shame. 
Farewell ;  commend  me  to  him  in  my  hate.  [£a 

Vin.  It  is  the  sweetest  box 
That  e'er  my  nose  came  nigh  ; 
The  finest  draw-work  cuff  that  e'er  was  worn  ; 
1  '11  love  this  blow  for  ever,  and  this  cheek 
Shall  still  henceforward  take  the  wall  of  this. 
Oh,  I  'm  above  my  tongue  :  most  constant  sister, 
In  this  thou  hast  right  honorable  shown  ; 
Many  are  call'd  by  their  honor,  that  have  none. 
Thou  art  approv'd  for  ever  in  my  thoughts. 
It  is  not  in  the  power  of  words  to  taint  thee. 
And  yet  for  the  salvation  of  my  oath, 
As  my  resolve  in  that  point,  I  will  lay 
Hard  siege  unto  my  mother,  tho'  I  know, 
A  siren's  tongue  could  not  bewitch  her  so. 
,  Mass,  fitly  here  she  comes  !  thanks,  my  disguise — 

The  Mother  enters. 

Madam,  good  afternoon. 

Moth.  Y  'are  welcome,  Sir. 

Vin.  The  next  of  Italy  commends  him  to  you, 
Our  mighty  expectation,  the  duke's  son. 

Moth.  I  think  myself  much  honor'd,  that  he  pleases 
To  rank  me  in  his  thoughts. 

Vin.  So  may  you,  lady  : 
One  that  is  like  to  be  our  sudden  duke ; 
The  crown  gapes  for  him  every  tide  ;  and  then 
Commander  o'er  us  all,  do  but  think  on  him, 
How  blest  were  they  now  that  could  pleasure  him 
E'en  with  anything  almost ! 

Moth.  Ay,  save  their  honor. 

Vin.  Tut,  one  would  let  a  little  of  that  go  too, 
And  ne'er  be  seen  in  't,  ne'er  be  seen  in  't,  mark  you, 
I  'd  wink  and  let  it  go. 

Moth.  Marry  but  I  would  not. 

Vin.   Marry  but  I  would,  I  hope,  1  know  you  would  too. 
If  you'd  that  blood  now  which  you  gave  your  daughter. 


174  ENGLISH  DRAMATIC  POETS. 

To  her  indeed  'tis,  this  wheel  comes  about ; 

That  man  that  must  be  all  tnis,  perhaps  ere  morning 

(For  his  white  father  does  but  mould  away) 

Has  long  desir'd  your  daughter. 

Moth.  Desir'd  ? 

Vin.  Nay,  but  hear  me, 
He  desires  now,  that  will  command  hereafter  ; 
Therefore  be  wise,  I  speak  as  more  a  friend 
To  you  than  him ;  madam,  I  know  you  're  poor. 
And  (lack  the  day !)  there  are  too  many  poor  ladies  already ; 
Why  should  you  wax  the  number  ?  'tis  despised. 
Live  wealthy,  rightly  understand  the  world, 
And  chide  away  that  foolish  country  girl 
Keeps  company  with  your  daughter,  Chastity. 

Moth.  O  fie,  fie  !  the  riches  of  the  world  cannot  hire  a  mother 
To  such  a  most  unnatural  task. 

Vin.  No,  but  a  thousand  angels  can  ; 
Men  have  no  power,  angels  must  work  you  to  't : 
The  world  descends  into  such  base-born  evils, 
That  forty  angels  can  make  fourscore  devils. 
There  will  be  fools  still  I  perceive — still  fool  ? 
Would  I  be  poor,  dejected,  scorn'd  of  greatness, 
Swept  from  the  palace,  and  see  others'  daughters 
Spring  with  the  dew  of  the  court,  having  mine  own 
So  much  desir'd  and  lov'd — by  the  duke's  son  ? 
No,  I  would  raise  my  state  upon  her  breast, 
And  call  her  eyes  my  tenants  ;  I  would  count 
My  yearly  maintenance  upon  her  cheeks ; 
Take  coach  upon  her  lip  ;  and  all  her  parts 
Should  keep  men  after  men ;  and  I  would  ride 
In  pleasure  upon  pleasure. 
You  took  great  pains  for  her,  once  when  it  was, 
Let  her  requite  it  now,  tho'  it  be  but  some  ; 
You  brought  her  forth,  she  may  well  bring  you  home. 

Moth.  O  heavens !  this  o'ercomes  me  ! 

Vin.  Not  I  hope  already  ?  [Aside. 

Moth.  It  is  too  strong  for  me  ;  men  know  that  know  us, 
We  are  so  weak  their  words  can  overthrow  us : 


THE  REVENGER'S  TRAGEDY.  175 


He  touch'd  me  nearly,  made  my  virtues  bate, 

When  his  tongue  struck  upon  my  poor  estate.  [Aside. 

Vin.  I  even  quake  to  proceed,  my  spirit  turns  edge. 
I  fear  me  she  's  unmother'd,  yet  I'll  venture.  [Aside. 

What  think  you  now,  lady  ?  speak,  are  you  wiser  ? 
What  said  advancement  to  you  ?  thus  it  said, 
The  daughter's  fall  lifts  up  the  mother's  head : 
Did  it  not,  Madam  ?  but  I  '11  swear  it  does 
In  many  places  ;  but  this  age  fears  no  man, 
'Tis  no  shame  to  be  bad,  because  'tis  common. 

Moth.  Aye,  that 's  the  comfort  on  't. 

Vin.  The  comfort  on  't ! — 
I  keep  the  best  for  last.     Can  these  persuade  you 
To  forget  heaven — and —  [Offers  her  money. 

Moth.  Ay,  these  are  they — 

Vin.  Oh! 

Moth.  That  enchant  our  sex  ; 
These  are  the  means  that  govern  our  affections, — 
That  woman 

Will  not  be  troubled  with  the  mother  long, 
That  sees  the  comfortable  shine  of  you  : 
I  blush  to  think  what  for  your  sakes  I  '11  do. 

Vin.  O  suffering  heaven  !  with  thy  invisible  finger, 
E'en  at  this  instant  turn  the  precious  side 
Of  both  mine  eye-balls  inward,  not  to  see  myself. 

[Aside. 

Moth.  Look  you,  Sir. 

Vin.  Hollo. 

Moth.  Let  us  thank  your  pains. 

Vin.  O  vou  are  a  kind  Madam. 

Moth.  I  '11  see  how  I  can  move. 

Vin.  Your  words  will  sting. 

Moth.  If  she  be  still  chaste,  I  '11  ne'er  call  her  mine. 

Vin.  Spoke  truer  than  you  meant  it ! 

Moth.  Daughter  Castiza 

Cast,  [within. ~\  Madam  ! 

Vin.  O  she  's  yonder,  meet  her. 
Troops  of  celestial  soldiers  guard  her  heart. 


170  ENGLISH  DRAMATIC  POETS. 

Your  dam  nas  devils  enough  to  take  her  part. 

[Castiza  returns. 

Cast.  Madam,  what  makes  yon  evil-offic'd  man 
In  presence  of  you  ? 

Moth.  Why? 

Cast.  He  lately  brought 
Immodest  writing  sent  from  the  duke's  son, 
To  tempt  me  to  dishonorable  act. 

Moth.  Dishonorable  act  ? — good  honorable  fool. 
That  wouldst  be  honest,  'cause  thou  wouldst  be  so, 
Producing  no  one  reason  but  thy  will ; 
And  it  has  a  good  report,  prettily  commended, 
But  pray  by  whom  ?  poor  people  :  ignorant  people  ; 
The  better  sort,  I  'm  sure,  cannot  abide  it. 
And  by  what  rule  should  we  square  out  our  lives 
But  by  our  betters'  actions  ?  oh,  if  thou  knew'st 
What  'twere  to  lose  it,  thou  wouldst  never  keep  it ; 
But  there  's  a  cold  curse  laid  upon  all  maids, 
Whilst  others  clip  the  sun,  they  clasp  the  shades. 
Deny  advancement  !  treasure  !  the  duke's  son  ! 

Cast.  I  cry  you  mercy,  lady,  I  mistook  you ; 
Pray  did  you  see  my  mother?  which  way  went  you  ? 
Pray  God  I  have  not  lost  her. 

Vin.  Prettily  put  by.  [Aside. 

Moth.  Are  you  as  proud  to  me,  as  coy  to  him  ? 
Do  you  not  know  me  now  ? 

Cast.  Why,  are  you  she  ? 
The  world  's  so  chang'd,  one  shape  into  another, 
It  is  a  wise  child  now  that  knows  her  mother. 

Vin.  Mos;  right,  i'  faith.  [Aside. 

Moth.  I  owe  your  cheek  my  hand 
For  that  presumption  now,  but  I  '11  forget  it ; 
Come,  you  shall  leave  those  childish  'haviors, 
And  understand  your  time.     Fortunes  flow  to  you. 
What  will  you  be  a  girl  ? 
If  all  fear'd  drowning  that  spy  waves  ashore, 
Gold  would  grow  rich,  and  all  the  merchants  poor. 

Cast.  It  is  a  pretty  saying  of  a  wicked  one,  but  methinks  now 


THE  REVENGER'S  TRAGEDY.  177 

It  does  not  show  so  well  out  of  your  mouth  ; 
Bettor  in  his. 

Vin.  Faith,  bad  enough  in  both, 
Were  I  in  earnest,  as  I  '11  seem  no  less.  [Aside. 

I  wonder,  lady,  your  own  mother's  words 
Cannot  be  taken,  nor  stand  in  full  force. 
'Tis  honesty  you  urge  ;  what 's  honesty  ? 
'Tis  but  heaven's  beggar ;  and  what  woman  is  so  foolish  to  keep 

honesty, 
And  be  not  able  to  keep  herself?  no, 
Times  are  grown  wiser,  and  will  keep  less  charge. 
A  maid  that  has  small  portion  now,  intends 
To  break  up  house,  and  live  upon  her  friends. 
How  blest  are  you  !  you  have  happiness  alone  ; 
Others  must  fall  to  thousands,  you  to  one  ; 
Sufficient  in  himself  to  make  your  forehead 
Dazzle  the  world  with  jewels,  and  petitionary  people 
Start  at  your  presence. 
O  think  upon  the  pleasure  of  the  palace  ! 
Secured  ease  and  state  !  the  stirring  meats, 
Ready  to  move   out  of  the  dishes,  that  e'en  now  quicken  when 

they're  eaten ! 
Banqu,  ts  abroad  by  torch-light !  music  !  sports  ! 
Bare-headed  vassals,  that  had  ne'er  the  fortune 
To  keep  on  their  own  hats,  but  let  horns  wear  'em  ! 
Nine  coaches  waiting — hurry,  hurry,  hurry — 

Cast.  Aye,  to  the  devil — 

Vin.  Aye,  to  the  devil !  to  the  duke,  by  my  faith. 

Moth.  Aye,  to  the  duke.     Daughter,  you'd  scorn  to  think 
Of  the  devil,  and  you  were  there  once. 

Vin.   Who'd  sit  at  home  in  a  neglected  room, 
Dealing  her  short-liv'd  beauty  to  the  pictures, 
That  are  as  useless  as  old  men,  when  those 
Poorer  in  face  and  fortune  than  herself 
Walk  with  a  hundred  acres  on  their  backs, 
Fair  meadows  cut  into  green  fore-parts  ? — 
Fair  trees,  those  comely  foretops  of  the  field, 
Are  cut  to  maintain  head-tires  : — much  untqld — 
part   i.  13 


178  ENGLISH  DRAMATIC  POETS. 

All  thrives  but  chastity,  she  lies  cold. 
Nay,  shall  I  come  near  to  you  1  mark  but  this  : 
Why  are  there  so  few  honest  women,  but  because  'tis  the  poorer 
profession  1  that's  accounted  best,  that's  best  followed  ; 
least  in  trade,  least  in  fashion  ;  and  that's  not  honesty,  be- 
lieve it ;  and  do  but  note  the  low  and  dejected  price  of  it : 
Lose  but  a  pearl,  we  search  and  cannot  brook  it : 
But  that  once  gone,  who  is  so  mad  to  look  it  ? 

Moth.  Troth,  he  says  true. 

Cast.  False  :  I  defy  you  both. 
I  have  endur'd  you  with  an  ear  of  fire ; 
Your  tongues  have  struck  hot  irons  on  my  face. 
Mother,  come  from  that  poisonous  woman  there. 

Moth.  Where? 

Cast.  Do  you  not  see  her  ?  she's  too  inward  then. 
Slave,  perish  in  thy  office.     You  heavens  please, 
Henceforth  to  make  the  mother  a  disease, 
Which  first  begins  with  me  ;  yet  I've  outgone  you.  [Exit. 

Vin.  O  angels,  clap  your  wings  upon  the  skies, 
And  give  this  virgin  crystal  plaudities !  [Aside. 

Moth.  Peevish,  coy,  foolish  ! — but  return  this  answer, 
My  lord  shall  be  most  welcome,  when  his  pleasure 
Conducts  him  this  way  ;   I  will  sway  mine  own  ; 
Women  with  women  can  work  best  alone.  [Exil. 

Vin.  Forgive  me,  heaven,  to  call  my  mother  wicked ! 

0  lessen  not  my  days  upon  the  earth. 

1  cannot  honor  her. 

The  Brothers,  V^idici  and  Hippolito,  threaten  their  Mother  with  Death 
for  consenting  to  the  Dishonor  of  their  Sister 

Vin.  O  t'.iou  for  whom  no  name  is  bad  enough. 
Moth,      /hat  mean  my  sons  ?  what,  will  you  murther  me  V 
Vin.    vV"icked  unnatural  parent ! 
Hip.  Friend  of  women  ! 
Moth.  Oh  !  are  sons  turn'd  monsters  !  help  ! 
Vin.  In  vain. 

Moth.  Are  ye  so  barbarous  to  set  iron  nipples 
Upon  the  breast  that  gave  yon  suck  ? 


THE  REVENGER'S  TRAGEDY.  179 


Vin.  That  breast 
Is  turn'd  to  quarled  poison. 

Moth.  Cut  not  your  days  for  't.     Am  not  I  your  mother  ? 

Vin.  Thou  dost  usurp  that  title  now  by  fraud, 
For  in  that  shell  of  mother  breeds  a  bawd. 

Moth.  A  bawd  !  O  name  far  loathsomer  than  hell  ! 

Hip.  It  should  be  so,  knew'st  thou  thy  office  well. 

Moth.  I  hate  it. 

Vin.  Ah,  is  it  possible,  you  powers  on  high, 
That  women  should  dissemble  when  they  die  ? 

Moth.  Dissemble  ! 

Vin.  Did  not  the  duke's  son  direct 
A  fellow  of  the  world's  condition  hither, 
That  did  corrupt  all  that  was  good  in  thee  ? 
Made  thee  uncivilly  forget  thyself, 
And  work  our  sister  to  his  purpose  ? 

Moth.   Who,  I  ? 
That  had  been  monstrous.     I  defy  that  man 
For  any  such  intent.     None  lives  so  pure, 
But  shall  be  soil'd  with  slander. 
Good  son,  believe  it  not. 

Vin.  Oh,  I'm  in  doubt 
Whether  I  am  myself  or  no — 
Stay,  let  me  look  again  upon  this  face. 
Who  shall  be  saved  when  mothers  have  no  grace  ? 

[Resumes  his  Disguise. 

Hip.   'Twould  make  one  half  despair. 

Vin.  I  was  the  man. 
Defy  me  now,  let's  see,  do  't  modestly. 

Moth.  O  hell  unto  my  soul ! 

Vin.  In  that  disguise,  I,  sent  from  the  duke's  son, 
Tried  you.  and  found  you  base  metal, 
As  any  villain  might  have  done. 

Moth.  O  no, 
No  tongue  hut  yours  could  have  bewitched  me  so. 

Vin.  O  nimble  in  damnation,  quick  in  turn  ! 
There  is  no  devil  could  strike  fire  so  soon. 
I  am  confutpH  in  a  word. 


ISO  ENGLISH  DRAMATIC  POETS. 

Moth.  Oh  sons, 
Forgive  me,  to  myself  I'll  prove  more  true ; 
You  that  should  honor  me,  I  kneel  to  you. 

Vin.  A  mother  to  give  aim  to  her  own  daughter ! 

Hip.  True,  brother ;  how  far  beyond  nature  'tis, 
Though  many  mothers  do  it. 

Vin.  Nay,  and  you  draw  tears  once,  go  you  to  bed. 
Wet  will  make  iron  blush  and  change  to  red. 
Brother  it  rains,  'twill  spoil  your  dagger,  house  it. 

Hip.   *Tis  done. 

Yin.  I'  faith  'tis  a  sweet  shower,  it  does  much  good. 
The  fruitful  "rounds  and  meadows  of  her  soul 
Have  been  long  dry  ;  pour  down,  thou  blessed  dew. 
Rise,  mother  ;  troth,  this  shower  has  made  you  higher. 

Moth.  O  you  heavens  ! 
Take  this  infectious  spot  out  of  my  soul ; 
I'll  rince  it  in  seven  waters  of  mine  eyes. 
Make  my  tears  salt  enough  to  taste  of  grace. 
To  weep  is  to  our  sex  naturally  given  ; 
But  to  weep  truly,  that's  a  gift  from  heaven. 

Vin.  Nay,  I'll  kiss  you  now.     Kiss  her,  brother  • 
Let's  marry  her  to  our  souls,  wherein's  no  lust, 
And  honorably  love  her. 

Hip.  Let  it  be. 

Vin.  For  honest  women  are  so  seld  and  rare 
'"Tis  good  to  cherish  those  poor  few  that  are. 
O  you  of  easy  wax  !  do  but  imagine 
Now  the  disease  has  left  you,  how  leprously 
That  office  would  have  cling'd  unto  your  forehead  . 
All  mothers  that  had  any  graceful  hue, 
Would  have  worn  masks  to  hide  their  face  at  you. 
It  would  have  grown  to  this,  at  your  foul  name 
Green-color'd  maids  would  have  turn'd  red  with  shame. 

Hip.  And  then  our  sister,  full  of  hire  and  baseness — 

Vin.  There  had  been  boiling  lead  again  ! 
The  duke's  son's  great  concubine  ! 
A  drab  of  state,  a  cloth-o'-silver  slut, 
To  have  her  train  borne  up,  and  her  soul  trail  in  the  dirt 


THE  REVENGERS  TRAGEDY.  .181 


Hip.  To  be  great,  miserable  ;  to  be  rich,  eternally  wretched. 

Vin.   O  common  madness  ! 
Ask  but  the  thriving'st  harlot  in  cold  blood, 
She'd  give  the  world  to  make  her  honor  good. 
Perhaps  you'll  say,  but  only  to  the  duke's  son 
In  private  ;  why,  she  first  begins  with  one 
"Who  afterwards  to  thousands  proves  a  whore  : 
Break  ice  in  one  place,  it  will  crack  in  more. 

Moth.  Most  certainly  applied. 

Hip.  O  brother,  you  forget  our  business. 

Vin.  And  well  rcmember'd ;  joy's  a  subtil  elf; 
I  think  man's  happiest  when  he  forgets  himself. 
Farewell,  once  dry,  now  holy-water'd  mead  ; 
Our  hearts  wear  feathers  that  before  wore  lead. 

Moth.   I'll  give  you  this,  that  one  I  never  knew 
Plead  better  for,  and  'gainst  the  devil  than  you. 

Yin.  You  make  me  proud  on  't. 

Hip.  Commend  us  in  all  virtue  to  our  sister. 

Yin.  Ay,  for  the  love  of  heaven,  to  that  true  maid. 

Moth.   With  my  best  words. 

Vin.  Whv  that  was  motherly  said.* 

Castiza  seems  to  consent  to  her  Mother's  wicked  motion. 

Castiza.     Mother. 

Cast.  Now,  mother,  you  have  wrought  with  me  so  strongly, 
That,  what  for  my  advancement,  as  to  calm 
The  trouble  of  your  tongue,  I  am  content. 

Moth.  Content,  to  what  ? 

Cast.  To  do  as  you  have  wish'd  me  : 
To  prostitute  my  breast  to  the  duke's  son, 
And  put  myself  to  common  usury. 

*  The  reality  and  life  of  this  Dialogue  passes  any  scenicnl  illusion  I  ever 
felt.  I  never  read  it  but  my  ears  tingle,  and  I  feel  a  hot  blush  spread  my 
cheeks,  as  if  I  were  presently  about  to  "  proclaim  "  some  such  "  malefac- 
tions" of  myself,  as  the  Brothers  here  rebuke  in  their  unnatural  parent;  in 
words  more  keen  and  dagger-like  than  those  which  Hamlet  speaks  to  his 
mother.  Such  power  has  the  passion  of  shame  truly  personated,  not  only 
to  "  strike  guilty  creatures  unto  the  soul,''  but  to  "  appal  "  even  those  that 
are  *•'  free." 


1S2  ENGLISH  DRAMATIC  POETS. 


Molh.  I  hope  you  will  not  so. 

Cast.  Hope  you  I  will  not? 
That's  not  the  hope  you  look  to  be  saved  in. 

Molh.  Truth,  but  it  is. 

Cast.  Do  not  deceive  yourself. 
I  am  as  you,  e'en  out  of  marble  wrought. 
What  would  you  now :  are  ye  not  pleas'd  yet  with  me  ? 
You  shall  not  wish  me  to  be  more  lascivious, 
Than  I  intend  to  be. 

Moth.  Strike  not  me  cold. 

Cast.  How  often  have  you  charg'd  me  on  your  blessing 
To  be  a  cursed  woman  !  when  you  knew 
Your  blessing  had  no  force  to  make  me  lewd, 
You  laid  your  curse  upon  me  ;  that  did  more  : 
The  mother's  curse  is  heavy ;   where  that  fights, 
Sons  set  in  storm  and  daughters  lose  their  lights. 

Moth.  Good  child,  dear  maid,  if  there  be  any  spark 
Of  heavenly  intellectual  light  within  thee, 

0  let  my  breath  revive  it  to  a  flame. 

Put  not  all  out  with  woman's  wilful  follies. 

1  am  recover'd  of  that  foul  disease 

That  haunts  too  many  mothers ;  kind,  forgive  me, 
Make  me  not  sick  in  health  !  if  then 
My  words  prevail 'd,  when  they  were  wickedness, 
How  much  more  now,  when  they  are  just  and  good  ! 

Cast.  I  wonder  what  you  mean  ;  are  not  you  she, 
For  whose  infect  persuasions,  I  could  scarce 
Kneel  out  my  prayers ;  and  had  much  ado, 
In  three  hours'  reading,  to  untwist  so  much 
Of  the  black  serpent,  as  you  wound  about  me  ! 

Moth.   'Tis  unfruitful  held,  tedious,  to  repeat  what's  past. 
I'm  now  your  present  mother. 

Cast.  Pish,  now  'tis  too  late. 

Moth.  Bethink  again,  thou  know'st  not  what  thou  say'st. 

Cast.   No  !  deny  advancement !  treasure  !  the  duke's  son  ! 

Moth.   O  see,  I  spoke  those  words,  and  now  they  poison  me. 
What  will  the  deed  do  then  ? 
Advancement !  true  :   as  high  as  shame  can  pitch  ! 


THE  REVENGER'S  TRAGEDY.  183 


For  treasure  :  who  e'er  knew  a  Harlot  rich  ? 

Or  could  build  by  the  purchase  of  her  sin 

An  hospital  to  keep  their  bastards  in  ? 

The  duke's  son  !  oh  ;   when  women  are  young  courtiers, 

They  are  sure  to  be  olc  beggars. 

To  know  the  miseries  most  harlots  taste, 

Thou'dst  wish  thyself  unborn  when  thou'rt  unchaste. 

Cast.  O  mother,  let  me  twine  about  your  neck, 
And  kiss  you  till  my  soul  melt  on  your  lips  ; 
I  did  but  this  to  try  you. 

Moth.  O  speak  truth. 

Cast.  Indeed  I  did  not ;  for  no  tongue  hath  force 
To  alter  me  from  honest : 

If  maidens  would,  men's  words  could  have  no  power ; 
A  virgin's  honor  is  a  crystal  tower, 
Which  being  weak  is  guarded  with  good  spirits; 
Until  she  basely  yie'.ds,  no  ill  inherits. 

Moth.  O  happy  child  !  faith,  and  thy  birth,  hath  saved  me, 
'Mongst  thousand  daughters,  happiest  of  all  others  ; 
Buy  thou  a  glass  for  maids,  and  I  for  mothers. 

Evil  Report  after  Death. 
What  is  it  to  have 
A.  flattering  false  insculption  on  a  tomb, 
A.nd  in  men's  hearts  reproach  ?  the  'bowel'd  corps 
May  be  sear'd  in,  but  (with  free  tongue  I  speak) 
The  faults  of  great  men  through  their  sear-clothes  break. 

Bastards. 

Oh  what  a  grief  'tis  that  a  man  should  live 
But  once  in  the  world,  and  then  to  live  a  Bastard  ? 
The  curse  of  the  womb,  the  thief  of  nature, 
Beo-ot  against  the  sevi  nth  commandment, 
Half  damn'd  in  the  conception  by  the  justice 
Of  that  unbribed  everlasting  law. 

Ton  nice  respects  in  Courtship. 
Ceremony  has  made  many  fools. 
It  is  as  easv  way  unto  n  duchess 


184  ENGLISH  DRAMATIC  POETS. 


) 


As  to  a  hatted  dame,  if  her  love  answer : 
But  that  by  timorous  honors,  pale  respec's, 
Idle  degrees  of  fear,  men  make  their  ways 
Hard  of  themselves. 


THE  DEVIL'S  LAW  CASE;  OR,  WHEN  WOMEN  GO  TO  LAW, 
THE  DEVIL  IS  FULL  OF  BUSINESS.  A  TRAGI-COMEDY.  BY 
JOHN  WEBSTER. 

Contarino  challenges  JErcole  to  fight  him  for  the  possession  of  Jolenta, 

whom  they  both  love. 

Con.  Sir ;  my  love  to  you  has  proclaimed  you  one, 
Whose  word  was  still  led  by  a  noble  thought. 
And  that  thought  follow'd  by  as  fair  a  deed : 
Deceive  not  that  opinion  :  we  were  students 
At  Padua  together,  and  have  long 
To  the  world's  eye  shown  like  friends. 
Was  it  hearty  on  your  part  to  me  ? 

Ere.  Unfained. 

Con.  You  are  false 
To  the  good  thought  I  held  of  you ;  and  now, 
Join  the  worst  part  of  man  to  you,  your  malice, 
To  uphold  that  falsehood.     Sacred  innocence 
Is  fled  your  bosom.     Signor,  I  must  tell  you  ; 
To  draw  the  picture  of  unkindness  truly, 
Is  to  express  two  that  have  dearly  loved, 
And  fall'n  at  variance.     'Tis  a  wonder  to  me, 
Knowing  my  interest  in  the  fair  Jolenta, 
That  you  should  love  her. 

Ere.  Compare  her  beauty  and  my  youth  together, 
And  you  will  find  the  fair  effects  of  love 
No  miracle  at  all. 

Con.  Yes,  it  will  prove 
Prodigious  to  you  :  I  must  stay  your  voyage. 

Ere.  Your  warrant  must  be  mighty. 

Con.  'Tis  a  seal 


THE  DEVIL'S  LAW  CASE.  185 

From  heaven  to  do  it,  since  you'd  ravish  from  me 

What's  there  intitled  mine  ;  and  yet  I  vow, 

By  the  essential  front  of  spotless  virtue, 

I  have  compassion  of  both  our  youths  : 

To  approve  which,  I  have  not  tane  the  way 

Like  an  Italian,  to  cut  your  throat 

By  practice  that  had  giv'n  you  now  for  dead 

And  never  frown 'd  upon  you. 

You  must  fijjht  with  me. 

Ere.  1  will,  Sir. 

Con.   And  instantly. 

Ere.  I  will  haste  before  you.     Point  whither. 

Con.  Why,  you  speak  nobly ;  and,  for  this  fair  dealing, 
Were  the  rich  jewel  (which  we  vary  for) 
A  thing  to  be  divided,  by  my  life, 
I  would  be  well  content  to  give  you  half: 
But  since  'tis  vain  to  think  we  can  be  friends, 
Tis  needful  one  of  us  be  tane  away 
From  being  the  other's  enemy. 

Ere.  Yet,  methinks, 
This  looks  not  like  a  quarrel. 

Con.  Not  a  quarrel ! 

Ere.  You  have  not  apparelled  your  fury  well ; 
It  goes  too  plain,  like  a  scholar. 

Can.  It  is  an  ornament, 
Makes  it  more  terrible  ;  and  you  shall  find  it 
A  weighty  injury,  and  attended  on 
By  discreet  valor ;  because  I  do  not  strike  you, 
Or  give  you  the  lie  (such  foul  preparatives 
Would  show  like  the  stale  injury  of  wine) 
I  reserve  my  rage  to  sit  on  my  sword's  piont ; 
Which  a  great  quantity  of  your  best  blood 
Can't  satisfy. 

Ere.  You  promise  well  to  yourself. 
Shall  "s  have  no  seconds  ? 

Con.  None,  for  fear  of  prevention. 

Ere.   The  length  of  our  weapons 

Con.   We'll  fit  them  by  the  way  : 


ISr,  ENGLISH  DRAMATIC  POETS. 


So  whether  our  time  calls  us  to  live  or  die, 
Let  us  do  both  like  noble  gentlemen, 
And  true  Italians. 

Ere.  For  that,  let  me  embrace  you. 

Con.  Methinks,  being  an  Italian,  I  trust  you 
To  come  somewhat  too  near  me : 
But  your  jealousy  gave  that  embrace,  to  try 
If  I  were  arm'd  ;  did  it  not? 

Ere.  No,  believe  me. 
I  take  your  heart  to  be  sufficient  proof 
Without  a  privy  coat :  and,  for  my  part, 
A  taffaty  is  all  the  shirt  of  mail 
I  am  arm'd  with. 

Con.  You  deal  equally.* 

Sitting  for  a  picture. 
Must  you  have  my  Picture  ? 
You  will  enjoin  me  to  a  strange  punishment. 
With  what  a  compell'd  face  a  woman  sits 
While  she  is  drawing  ?     I  have  noted  divers 
Either  to  fain  smiles,  or  suck  in  the  lips, 
To  have  a  little  mouth  ;  ruffle  the  cheeks, 
To  have  the  dimple  seen ;  and  so  disorder 
The  face  with  affectation,  at  next  sitting 
It  has  not  been  the  same  :  I  have  known  others 
Have  lost  the  entire  fashion  of  their  face 
In  half  an  hour's  sitting — in  hot  weather — 
The  painting  on  their  face  has  been  so  mellow, 
They  have  left  the  poor  man  harder  work  by  half 
To  mend  the  copy  he  wrought  by  :  But  indeed, 
If  ever  I  would  have  mine  drawn  to  the  life, 
I  would  have  a  painter  steal  it  at  such  a  time 
I  were  devoutly  kneeling  at  my  prayers  ; 
There  is  then  a  heavenly  beauty  in  't,  the  soul 
Moves  in  the  superficies. 

*  I  have  selected  this  scene  as  the  model  of  a  well  managed  and  gentle- 
manlike difference. 


THE  DEVIL'S  LAW  CASE.  137 


Honorable  Employment. 

Oh,  my  lord,  lie  not  idle  : 

The  chiefest  action  for  a  man  of  great  spirit 

Is  never  to  be  out  of  action.     We  should  think  ; 

The  soul  was  never  put  into  the  body, 

Which  has  so  many  rare  and  curious  pieces 

Of  mathematical  motion,  to  stand  still. 

Virtue  is  ever  sowing  of  her  seeds  : 

In  the  trenches  for  the  soldier  ;  in  the  wakeful  study 

For  the  scholar  ;  in  the  furrows  of  the  sea 

For  men  of  our  profession :  of  all  which 

Arise  and  spring  up  honor. 

Selling  of  Land. 
I  could  wish 
That  noblemen  would  ever  live  in  the  country, 
Rather  than  make  their  visits  up  to  the  city 
About  such  business.     Noble  houses 
Have  no  such  goodly  prospects  any  way 
As  into  their  own  land  :  the  decay  of  that 
(Next  to  their  begging  church-land)  is  a  ruin 
Worth  all  men's  pity. 

Dirge  in  a  Futural  Pageant. 

All  the  flowers  of  the  spring 
Meet  to  perfume  our  burying  : 
These  have  but  their  growing  prime, 
And  man  does  flourish  but  his  tine. 
Survey  our  progress  from  our  birth  ; 
We  are  set,  we  grow,  we  turn  fc>  earth. 
Courts  adieu,  and  all  delights, 
All  bewitching  appetites. 
Sweetest  breath  and  clearest  ere 
(Like  perfumes)  go  out  and  die ; 
And  consequently  this  is  done, 
As  shadows  wait  upon  the  sun. 
Vain  the  ambition  of  kings, 
Who  seek  by  trophies  and  dead  things 


18S  ENGLISH  DRAMATIC  POETS. 


To  leave  a  living  name  behind, 

And  weave  but  nets  to  citch  the  wind. 


APPIUS  AND  VIRGINIA:  A  TRAGEDY.     BY  JOHN  WEBSTER. 

Appius,  the  Roman  Decemvir,  not  being  able  to  corrupt  the  Innocence  of 
Virginia,  Daughter  to  Virginius  the  Roman  General,  and  newly  mar- 
ried to  Icilius,  a  young  and  noble  Gentleman;  to  get  possession  of  her 
person,  suborns  one  Clodius  fo  claim  her  as  the  Daughter  of  a  deceased 
bondwoman  of  his,  on  the  testimony  of  certain  forged  writings,  pre- 
tended to  be  the  Deposition  of  that  Woman,  on  her  deathbed,  confess- 
ing that  the  Child  had  been  ipuriously  passed  upon  Virginius  for  his 
own:  the  Cause  is  tried  at  Rcme  before  Appius. 

Appius.     Virginia.     Virginius,  her  Father.     Icilius,  her  Hus- 
band.    Senators  of  Rome.     Nurse  and  other  Witnesses. 

Virginius.  My  Lords,  believe  not  this  spruce  orator.* 
Had  I  but  fee'd  him  first,  he  vould  have  told 
As  smooth  a  tale  on  our  side. 

Appius.  Give  us  leave. 

Virginius.  He  deals  in  formal  glosses,  cunning  shows, 
And  cares  not  greatly  which  way  the  case  goes. 
Examine  I  beseech  you  this  olo  woman, 
Who  is  the  truest  witness  of  her  birth. 

Appius.  Soft  you,  is  she  youi  only  witness  ? 

Virginius.  She  is,  my  Lord. 

Appius.  Why,  is  it  possible, 
Such  a  great  Lady  in  her  time  of  child  birth 
Should  have  no  other  witness  bui  a  nurse  ? 

Virginius.  For  aught  I  know,  the  rest  are  dead,  my  Lord. 

Appius.  Dead  ?  no,  my  Lord,  belike  they  were  of  counsel 
With  your  deceased  Lady,  and  sc  shamed 
Twice  to  give  color  to  so  vile  an  Kit. 
Thou  nurse,  observe  me,  thy  offence  already 
Doth  merit  punishment  above  our  censure  ; 
Pull  not  more  whips  upon  thee. 

*  Counsel  for  Clodius. 


APPIUS  AND  VIRGIMA.  189 


Nurse.  I  defy  your  whips,  my  Lord. 
Appius.  Command  her  silence,  Lictors 

Virginius.  O  injustice!  you  frown  away  my  witness 
Is  this  law,  is  this  uprightness  1 

Appius.  Have  you  view'd  the  writings? 
This  is  a  trick  to  make  our  slaves  our  heirs 
Be}  ond  prevention. 

Virginius.  Appius,  wilt  thou  hear  me  ? 
You  have  slander 'd  a  sweet  Lady  that  now  sleeps 
In  a  most  noble  monument.     Observe  me; 
I  would  have  tane  her  simple  word  to  gage 
Before  his  soul  or  thine. 

Appius.  That  makes  thee  wretched. 
OKI  man,  I  am  sorrv  for  thee  :   that  thv  love 
By  custom  is  grown  natural,  which  by  na.urr 
Should  be  an  absolute  lothing.     Note  the  sparrow 
That  having  hatch'd  a  cuckow,  when  it  sees 
Her  brood  a  monster  *o  her  proper  kind, 
Forsakes  it,  and  with  more  fear  shuns  the  nest 
Than  she  had  care  i'  the  spring  to  have  it  drest. 
Here's  witness,  most  sufficient  witness. 
Think  you,  my  Lord,  our  laws  are  writ  in  snow, 
And  that  your  breath  can  melt  them  ? 

Virginius.   No,  my  Lord, 
We  have  not  such  hot  livers  :  mark  you  that  ? 

Virginia.  Remember  yet  the  gods,  0  Appius  ; 
Who  have  no  part  in  this.     Thy  violent  lust 
Shall  like  the  biting  of  th'  invenom'd  aspick, 
Steal  thee  to  hell.     So  subtle  are  thy  evils  ; 
In  life  they'll  seem  good  angels,  in  death  devils. 

Appius.  Observe  you  not  this  scandal  1 

Icilius.  Sir,  'tis  none. 
I'll  show  thy  letters  full  of  violent  lust 
Sent  to  this  Lady. 

Appius.   My  Lords,  these  are  but  dilatory  shifts. 
Sirrah,  I  know  you  to  the  very  heart, 
And  I  '11  observe  you. 

Icilius.  Do,  but  do  it  with  justice. 


190  ENGLISH  DRAMATIC  POETS. 


Clear  thyself  first,  O  Ippius,  ere  thou  judge 
Our  imperfections  rash  y,  for  we  wot 
The  office  of  a  justice  is  perverted  quite 
When  one  thief  hangs  ano'.her. 

1.   Senator.  You  are  too  bold. 

Appius.  Lictor,  take  charge  of  him. 

Icilius.   'Tis  very  good. 
Will  no  man  view  these  papers,*  what  not  one  ? 
Jove,  thou  hast  found  s  rival  upon  earth, 
His  nod  strikes  all  men  dumb. 
My  duty  to  you. 

The  ass  that  carried  Isis  on  his  back, 
Thought  that  the  superstitious  people  kneel'd 
To  give  his  dulness  humble  reverence 
If  thou  thinkst  so,  proud  ju^lge,  I  let  thee  see 
I  bend  Ljw  to  thy  gown  but  not  1o  thee. 

Virginius.  There's  one  In  hold  already.     Noble  youth  ; 
Fetters  grace  one,  being  worn  for  speaking  truth. 
I'll  lie  with  thee,  I  swear,  though  in  a  dungeon. 
The  injuries  you  do  us  we  shall  pardon  : 
But  it  is  just,  the  wrongs  which  we  forgive 
The  gods  are  charg'd  therewith  to  see  revenged. 

Appius.  Your  madness  wrongs  you :  by  my  soul,  I  love  you. 

Virginius.   Thy  soul ! 
O  thy  opinion,  old  Pythagoras : 
Whither,  O  whither  should  thy  black  soul  fly, 
Into  what  ravenous  bird,  or  beast  most  vile  ? 
Only  into  a  weeping  crocodile. 
Love  me  ! 

Thou  lov'st  me,  Appius,  as  the  earth  loves  rain, 
Only  to  swallow  it. 

Appius.   Know  you  the  place  you  stand  in  ? 

Virginius.  I'll  speak  freely. 
Good  men,  too  much  trusting  their  innocence, 
Do  not  betake  them  to  that  just  defence 
Which  gods  and  nature  gave  them  ;  but  even  wink 
In  the  black  tempest,  and  so  fondly  sink. 

*  The  Forgery. 


DUCHESS  OF  MALI'Y.  19' 


Appius.  Let  us  proceed  to  sentence. 

Virginias.  Ere  you  speak, 
One  parting  farewell  let  me  borrow  of  you 
To  take  of  my  Virginia. 

Appius.  Pray,  take  your  course. 

Virginius.  Farewell,  my  sweet  Virginia :  never,  never 
Shall  I  taste  fruit  of  the  most  blessed  hope 
I  had  in  thee.     Let  me  forget  the  thought 
Of  thy  most  pretty  infancy  :  when  first, 
Returning  from  the  wars,  I  took  delight 
To  rock  thee  in  my  target ;  when  my  girl 
Would  kiss  her  father  in  his  burganet 
Of  glittering  steel  hung  'bout  his  armed  neck, 
And,  viewing  the  bright  metal,  smile  to  see 
Another  fair  Virginia  smile  on  thee ; 
When  I  first  taught  thee  how  to  go,  to  speak  ; 
And,  when  my  wounds  have  smarted)  I  have  sung, 
With  an  unskilful  yet  a  willing  voice, 
To  bring  my  girl  asleep.     O  my  Virginia ; 
When  we  begun  to  be,  begun  our  woes; 
Increasing  still,  as  dying  life  still  grows. 
Thus  I  surrender  her  into  the  court 
Of  all  the  gods.  [Kills  her. 

And  see,  proud  Appius,  see  ; 
Although  not  justly,  I  have  made  her  free. 
And  if  thy  lust  with  this  act  be  not  fed, 
Bury  her  in  thy  bowels  now  she's  dead. 


THE  TRAGEDY  OF  THE  DUCHESS  OF  MALFY.      BY  JOHN 

WEBSTER. 

The  Duchess  of  Malfy  marries  Antonio,  her  Steward. 

Duchess.     Cariola,  her  Maid. 
Duchess.  Is  Antonio  come  ? 
Cariola.  He  attends  you. 
Duch.  Good  dear  soul, 


IDS  ENGLISH  DRAMATIC   POETS. 


Leave  me:  but  place  thyself  behind  the  arras, 

Where  thou  rtiayst  overhear  us :  wish  me  good  speed, 

For  I  am  going  into  a  wilderness, 

Where  I  shall  find  nor  path  nor  friendly  clue 

To  be  my  guide.  [Cariola  withdraws. 

Antonio  enters. 

I  sent  for  you,  sit  down. 

Take  pen  and  ink  and  write.     Are  you  ready  ? 

Ant.  Yes. 

Duch.   What  did  I  say  ? 

Ant.  That  I  should  write  somewhat. 

Duch.  Oh,  I  remember. 
After  these  triumphs  and  this  large  expense 
It's  fit,  like  thrifty  husbands,  we  inquire 
W  hat's  laid  up  for  to-morrow. 

Ant.  So  please  your  beauteous  excellence. 

Duch.  Beauteous  indeed  !  I  thank  you  ;   I  look  young 
For  your  sake.     You  have  tane  my  cares  upon  you. 

Ant.  I'll  fetch  your  grace  the  particulars  of  your  revenue  and 
expense. 

Duch.  Oh,  you're  an  upright  treasurer:  but  you  mistook, 
For  when  I  said  I  meant  to  make  inquiry 
What's  laid  up  for  to-morrow,  I  did  mean 
What's  laid  up  yonder  for  me. 

Ant.  Where  ? 

Duch.  In  heaven. 
I'm  making  my  will  (as  'tis  fit  princes  should) 
In  perfect  memory  ;  and  I  pray,  sir,  tell  me, 
Were  not  one  better  make  it  smiling,  thus, 
Than  in  deep  groans  and  terrible  ghastly  looks, 
As  if  the  gifts  we  parted  with  procur'd 
That  violent  distraction  ? 

Ant.  Oh,  much  better. 

Duch.  If  I  had  a  husband  now,  this  care  were  quit. 
But  I  intend  to  make  you  overseer  ; 
What  good  deed  shall  we  first  remember,  say  ? 

Ant.  Begin  with  that  first  good  deed,  began  in  the  world 


DUCHESS  OF  MALFY.  103 

After  man's  creation,  the  sacrament  of  marriage. 
I'd  have  you  first  provide  for  a  good  husband  ; 
Give  him  all. 

Duck.  All! 

Ant.  Yes,  your  excellent  self. 

Duch.   In  a  winding  sheet  '? 

Ant.  In  a  couple. 

Duch.  St.  Winifred,  that  were  a  strange  will. 

Ant.   'Twere  stranger  if  there  were  no  will  in  you 
To  marry  again. 

Duch.  What  do  you  think  of  marriage  ? 

Ant.   I  take  it,  as  those  that  deny  purgatory  ; 
It  locally  contains  or  heaven  or  hell, 
There's  no  third  place  in  't. 

Duch.   How  do  you  affect  it  ? 

Ant.   My  banishment  feeding  my  melancholy, 
Would  often  reason  thus. 

Duch.  Pray,  let  us  hear  it. 

Ant.  Say  a  man  never  marry,  nor  have  children, 
What  takes  that  from  him  ?  only  the  bare  name 
Of  being  a  father,  or  the  weak  delight . 
To  see  the  little  wanton  ride  a  cock-horse 
Upon  a  painted  stick,  or  hear  him  chatter 
Like  a  taught  starling. 

Duch.   Fie,  fie,  what's  all  this  ? 
One  of  your  eyes  is  blood-shot ;  use  my  Ring  to  't. 
They  say  'tis  very  sovran,  'twas  my  wedding  ring, 
And  I  did  vow  never  to  part  with  it 
But  to  my  second  husband. 

Ant.  You  have  parted  with  it  now. 

Duch.  Yes,  to  help  your  eye-sight. 

Ant.  You  have  made  me  stark  blind. 

Duch.  How  ? 

Ant.   There  is  a  saucy  and  ambitious  devil. 
Is  dancing  in  this  circle. 

Duch.   Remove  him. 

Ant.  How  ? 

Duch.  There  needs  small  conjuration,  when  your  finger 

PART    I.  14 


ll  ENGLISH   DRAMATIC  POETS. 

May  do  it ;  thus  :  is  it  tit  ? 

[She  puts  the  ring  on  his  finger. 

Ant.  What  said  you  ?  [He  kneels. 

Duch.  Sir! 
This  goodly  roof  of  yours  is  too  low  built ; 
I  cannot  stand  upright  in  't  nor  discourse, 
Without  I  raise  it  higher  :  raise  yourself; 
Or,  if  you  please  my  hand  to  help  you  :  so. 

Ant.  Ambition,  Madam,  is  a  great  man's  madness, 
That  is  not  kept  in  chains  and  close-pent  rooms, 
But  in  fair  lightsome  lodgings,  and  is  girt 
With  the  wild  noise  of  prattling  visitants, 
Which  makes  it  lunatick  beyond  all  cure. 
Conceive  not  I'm  so  stupid,  but  I  aim 
Whereto  your  favors  tend  :  but  he's  a  fool 
That,  being  a  cold,  would  thrust  his  hands  in  the  fire 
To  warm  them. 

Duch.  So,  now  the  ground  's  broke, 
You  may  discover  what  a  wealthy  mine 
I  make  you  Lord  of. 

Ant.   O  my  unworthiness. 

Duch.  You  were  ill  to  sell  yourself. 
This  darkning  of  your  worth  is  not  like  that 
Which  tradesmen  use  in  the  city  ;  their  false  lights 
Are  to  rid  bad  wares  off:  and  I  must  tell  you, 
If  you  will  know  where  breathes  a  complete  man 
(I  speak  it  without  flattery)  turn  your  eyes, 
And  progress  through  yourself. 

Ant.  Were  there  nor  heaven  nor  hell, 
I  should  be  honest :  I  have  long  serv'd  virtue, 
And  never  tane  wages  of  her. — 

Duch.   Now  she  pays  it. 
The  misery  of  us  that  are  born  great ! 
We  are  fore'd  to  woo,  because  none  dare  woo  us: 
And  as  a  tyrant  doubles  with  his  words, 
And  fearfully  equivocates  :  so  we 
Are  forced  to  express  our  violent  passions 
In  riddles  and  in  dreams,  and  leave  the  path 


DUCHESS  OF  MALFY.  105 


Of  simple  virtue,  which  was  never  made 

To  seem  the  thing  it  is  not.     Go,  go,  brag 

You  have  left  me  heartless  ;  mine  is  in  your  bosom ; 

I  hope  'twill  multiply  love  there  ;  you  do  tremble ; 

Make  not  your  heart  so  dead  a  piece  of  flesh, 

To  fear  more  than  to  love  me  ;  Sir,  be  confident. 

What  is  it  distracts  you  ?     This  is  flesh  and  blood,  Sir, 

'Tis  not  the  figure  cut  in  alabaster, 

Kneels  at  my  husband's  tomb.     Awake,  awake,  man. 

I  do  here  put  oil"  all  vain  ceremony, 

And  only  do  appear  to  you  a  young  widow  : 

I  use  but  half  a  blush  in  't. 

Ant.  Truth  speak  for  me  ; 
I  will  remain  the  constant  sanctuary 
Of  your  good  name. 

Duch.  I  thank  you,  gentle  love  ; 
And  'cause  you  shall  not  come  to  me  in  debt 
(Being  now  my  Steward)  here  upon  your  lips 
I  sign  your  quietus  est :  this  you  should  have  begg'd  now. 
I  have  seen  children  oft  eat  sweetmeats  thus, 
As  fearful  to  devour  them  too  soon. 

Ant.  But,  for  your  brothers — 

Duch.  Do  not  think  of  them. 
All  discord,  without  this  circumference, 
Is  only  to  be  pitied,  and  not  fear'd  : 
Yet,  should  they  know  it,  time  will  easily 
Scatter  the  tempest. 

Ant.  These  words  should  be  mine, 
And  all  the  parts  you  have  spoke  ;  if  some  part  of  it 
Would  not  have  savor'd  flattery. 

[Cariola  comes  forward. 

Duch.  Kneel. 

Ant.  Hah  ! 

Duch.  Be  not  amaz'd  ;  this  woman's  of  my  council. 
I  have  heard  lawyers  say,  a  contract  in  a  chamber 
Per  verba  prcesenti  is  absolute  marriage  ; 
Bless  heaven  this  sacred  Gordian,  which  let  violence 
Never  untwine. 


196  ENGLISH  DRAMATIC  POETS. 


Ant.   And  may  our  sweet  affections,  like  the  spheres, 
Be  still  in  motion. 

Duch.  Quickening,  and  make 
The  like  soft  music. 

Car.  Whether  the  spirit  of  greatness,  or  of  woman, 
Reign  most  in  her,  I  know  not ;  but  it  shows 
A  fearful  madness  :  I  owe  her  much  of  pity. 

The  Duchess's  marriage  with  Antonio  In  in  a  discovered,  her  brother  Fer- 
dinand shuts  her  up  in  a  Prisoti,  and  torments  her  with  various  trials 
of  studied  Cruelty.     By  his  command  Bosola,  the   instrument  of  his 
Devices,  shows  her  the  Bodies  of  her  Husband  and  Children  counter 
feited  in  Wax,  as  dead. 

Bos.   He  doth  present  you  this  sad  spectacle, 
That  now  you  know  directly  they  are  dead, 
Hereafter  you  may  wisely  cease  to  grieve 
For  that  which  cannot  be  recovered. 

Duch.  There  is  not  between  heaven  and  earth  one  wish 
I  stay  for  after  this  :  it  wastes  me  more 
Than  were  't  my  picture  fashion'd  out  of  wax, 
Stuck  with  a  magical  needle,  and  then  buried 
In  some  foul  dunghill ;  and  yond's  an  excellent  property 
For  a  tyrant,  which  I  would  account  mercy. 

Bos.  What's  that  ? 

Duch.  If  they  would  bind  me  to  that  lifeless  trunk, 
And  let  me  freeze  to  death. 

Bos.  Come,  you  must  live. 
Leave  this  vain  sorrow. 
Things  being  at  the  worst  begin  to  mend. 
The  Bee, 

AVhen  he  hath  shot  his  sting  into  your  hand, 
May  then  play  with  your  eye-lid. 

Duch.  Good  comfortable  fellow, 
Persuade  a  wretch  that's  broke  upon  the  wheel 
To  have  all  his  bones  new  set ;  intreat  him  live 
To  be  executed  again.     Who  must  dispatch  me  ? 
I  account  this  world  a  tedious  theatre, 
For  I  do  play  a  part  in  't  'gainst  my  will. 

Bos.  Come,  be  of  comfort,  I  will  save  your  life. 


DUCHESS  OF  MALFY.  197 

Duch.   Indeed  1  have  not  leisure  to  attend 
So  small  a  business. 
I  will  go  pray. — No  :  I  '11  go  curse. 

Bos.    O  lie. 

Duch.  I  could  curse  the  stars : 

Bos.  O  fearful. 

Duch.  And  those  three  smiling  seasons  of  the  year 
Into  a  Russian  winter  :  nay,  the  world 
To  its  first  chaos. 

Plagues  (that  make  lanes  through  largest  families) 
Consume  them.* 
Let  them  like  tyrants 

Ne'er  be  remember'd  but  for  the  ill  they've  done. 
Let  all  the  zealous  prayers  of  mortified  • 

Churchmen  forget  them. 

Let  heaven  a  little  while  cease  crowning  martyrs, 
To  punish  them  :  go,  howl   them  this  ;  and  say,  I  long  to  bleed 
It  is  some  mercy  when  men  kill  with  speed.  [Exit. 

Ferdinand  enters. 

Ferd.  Excellent,  as  I  would  wish  :  she's  plagued  in  art. 
These  presentations  are  but  fram'd  in  wax, 
By  the  curious  master  in  that  quality 
Vincentio  Lauriola,  and  she  takes  them 
For  true  substantial  bodies. 

Bos.  Why  do  you  do  this  ? 

Ferd.  To  bring  her  to  despair. 

Bos.  Faith,  end  here  ; 
And  go  no  further  in  your  cruelty. 
Send  her  a  penitential  garment  to  put  on 
Next  to  her  delicate  skin,  and  furnish  her 
With  beads  and  prayer  books. 

Ferd.  Damn  her  ;  that  body  of  her's, 
While  that  my  blood  ran  pure  in  't,  was  more  worth 
Than  that,  which  thou  would 'st  comfort,  call'd  a  soul. 
I'll  send  her  masques  of  common  courtezans, 
Have  her  meat  served  up  by  bawds  and  ruffians, 

*  Her  Brothers. 


L99  ENGLISH  DRAMATIC  POETS. 


And  ('cause  slio'll  need  be  mad)  I  am  resolv'd 
To  remove  forth  the  common  hospital 
All  the  mad  folk,  and  place  them  near  her  lodging  1 
There  let  'em  practise  together,  sing,  and  dance, 
And  act  their  gambols  to  the  full  o'  the  moon. 

She  is  kept  waking  with  noises  of  Madmen  ;  and,  at  last,  is  strangled  b$ 

common  Executioners. 

Duchess.     Cariola. 

Duch.  What  hideous  noise  was  that  ? 

Car.  'Tis  the  wild  consort 
Of  madmen,  Lady  :  which  your  tyrant  brother 
Hath  placed  about  your  lodging  :  this  tyranny 
I  think  was  nfver  practis'd  till  this  hour. 

Duch.  Indeed  I  thank  him  ;  nothing  but  noise  and  folly 
Can  keep  me  in  my  right  wits,  whereas  reason 
And  silence  make  me  stark  mad  ;  sit  down, 
Discourse  to  me  some  dismal  tragedy. 

Car.  O  'twill  increase  your  melancholy. 

Duch.  Thou  art  deceived. 
To  hear  of  greater  grief  would  lessen  mine. 
This  is  a  prison  ? 

Car.  Yes  :  but  thou  shalt  live 
To  shake  this  durance  off. 

Duch.  Thou  art  a  fool. 
The  Robin-red-breast  and  the  Nightingale 
Never  live  long  in  cages. 

Car.  Pray,  dry  your  eyes. 
What  think  you  of,  Madam  ? 

Duch.   Of  nothing  : 
When  T  muse  thus,  1  sleep. 

Car.  Like  a  madman,  with  your  eyes  open  ? 

Duch.  Dost  thou  think  we  shall  know  one  anothe 
Jn  the  other  world  1 

Car.  Yes,  out  of  question. 

Duch.  O  that  it  were  possible  we  might 
But  hold  some  two  days  conference  with  the  dead. 
From  them  1  should  learn  somewhat  I  am  sure 


DUCHESS  OF  MALFY.  199 


I  never  shall  know  here.     I'll  tell  thee  a  miracle  ; 

I  am  not  mad  yet,  to  my  cause  of  sorrow. 

Th'  heaven  o'er  my  head  seems  made  of  molten  brass, 

The  earth  of  flaming  sulphur,  yet  I  am  not  mad  : 

I  am  acquainted  with  sad  misery, 

As  the  tann'd  galley-slave  is  with  his  oar; 

Necessity  makes  me  sutler  constantly, 

And  custom  makes  it  easy.     Who  do  I  look  like  now  ? 

Car.  Like  to  your  picture  in  the  gallery ; 
A  deal  of  life  in  show,  but  none  in  practice  : 
Or  rather,  like  some  reverend  monument 
Whose  ruins  are  even  pitied. 

Di/ch.  Yery  proper  : 
And  Fortune  seems  only  to  have  her  eyesight, 
To  behold  my  tragedy  :  how  now, 
What  noise  is  that  ? 

A  Servant  enters. 

Serv.  I  am  come  to  tell  you, 
Your  brother  hath  intended  you  some  sport. 
A  great  physician  when  the  Pope  was  sick 
Of  a  deep  melancholy,  presented  him 
With  several  sorts  of  madmen,  which  wild  object 
(Being  full  of  change  and  sport)  forc'd  him  to  laugh. 
And  so  th'  imposthume  broke  :  the  selfsame  cure 
The  duke  intends  on  you. 

Duch.  Let  them  come  in. 

Here  follows  a  Dance  of  Madmen,  with  Music  answerable  thereto:  af 
which  Bosola  (like  an  old  Man)  enters. 

Duch.  Is  he  mad  too  ? 

Bos.  I  am  come  to  make  thy  tomb. 

Duch.   Ha  :  my  tomb  ? 
Thou  speak'st  as  if  I  lay  upon  my  deathbed  : 
Gasping  for  breath :   dost  thou  perceive  me  sick  ? 

Bos.  Yes,  and  the  more   dangerously,  since  thy  sickness  is 
insensible. 

Duch.  Thou  art  not  mad  sure :  dost  know  me  ? 

Bos.   Yes. 


200  KNCLISH  DRAMATIC  POETS. 


Dttch.    Who  am  I  ? 

Bos.  Thou  art  a  box  of  wormseed  ;  at  best  but  a  salvatory  of 
green  mummy.  What's  this  flesh  ?  a  little  crudded 
milk,  fantastical  puff-paste.  Our  bodies  are  weaker 
than  those  paper-prisons  boys  use  to  keep  flies  in,  more 
contemptible ;  since  ours  is  to  preserve  earth-worms. 
Didst  thou  ever  see  a  lark  in  a  cage  ?  Such  is  the  soul 
in  the  body  :  this  world  is  like  her  little  turf  of  grass  ; 
and  the  heaven  o'er  our  heads  like  her  looking-glass, 
only  gives  us  a  miserable  knowledge  of  the  small  com- 
pass of  our  prison. 

Ditch.  Am  not  I  thy  duchess  ? 

Bos.  Thou  art  some  great  woman  sure,  for  riot  begins  to  sit  on 
thy  forehead  (clad  in  grey  hairs)  twenty  years  sooner 
than  on  a  merry  milk-maid's.  Thou  sleepest  worse,  than 
if  a  mouse  should  be  forced  to  take  up  her  lodging  in  a 
cat's  ear  :  a  little  infant  that  breeds  its  teeth,  should  it 
lie  with  thee  would  cry  out,  as  if  thou  wert  the  more 
unquiet  bedfellow. 

Duch.  I  am  Duchess  of  Malfy  still. 

Bos.  That  makes  thy  sleeps  so  broken  : 
Glories,  like  glow-worms,  afar  off  shine  bright ; 
But,  look'd  too  near,  have  neither  heat  nor  light. 

Buck.  Thou  art  very  plain. 

Bos.  My  trade  is  to  flatter  the  dead,  not  the  living.  I  am  a 
tomb-maker. 

Duch.  And  thou  comest  to  make  my  tomb  ? 

Bos.  Yes. 

Duch.  Let  me  be  a  little  merry. 
Of  what  stuff  wilt  thou  make  it  ? 

Bos.  Nay,  resolve  me  first ;  of  what  fashion  ? 

Duch.  Why,  do  we  grow  fantastical  in  our  death-bed  ? 
Do  we  affect  fashion  in  the  grave  ? 

Bos.  Most  ambitiously.  Princes'  images  on  their  tombs  do  not 
lie  as  they  were  wont,  seeming  to  pray  up  to  heaven  :  but 
with  their  hands  under  their  cheeks  (as  if  they  died  of 
the  tooth-ache^ :  they  are  not  carved  with  their  eyes 
fixed  upon  th(   stars ;   but,  as  their  minds  were  wholly 


DUCHESS  OF  MALFY.  201 

bent  upon  the  world,  the  same  way  they  seem  to  turn 
their  faces. 

Buck.  Let  me  know  fully  therefore  the  effect 
Of  this  thy  dismal  preparation, 
This  talk,  fit  for  a  charnel. 

Bos.  Now  I  shall.       [A  Coffin,  Cords,  and  a  Bell,  produced. 
Here  is  a  present  from  your  princely  brothers  ; 
And  may  it  arrive  welcome,  for  it  brings 
Last  benefit,  last  sorrow. 

Duch.  Let  me  see  it, 
I  have  so  much  obedience  in  my  blood, 
I  wish  it  in  their  veins  to  do  them  good. 

Bos.  This  is  your  last  presence  chamber. 

Car.  O  my  sweet  lady. 

Duch.  Peace,  it  affrights  not  me. 

Bos.  I  am  the  common  bell-man, 
That  usually  is  sent  to  condemn'd  persons 
The  night  before  they  suffer. 

Duch.   Even  now  thou  saidst, 
Thou  wast  a  tomb-maker. 

Bos.   'Twas  to  bring  you 
By  degrees  to  mortification  :  Listen. 

Dirge. 

Hark,  now  everything  is  still ; 

This  screech-owl,  and  the  whistler  shrill, 

Call  upon  our  dame  aloud, 

And  bid  her  quickly  d'on  her  shroud. 

Much  you  had  of  land  and  rent ; 

Your  length  in  clay's  now  competent. 

A  long  war  disturb'd  your  mind  ; 

Here  your  perfect  peace  is  sign'd. 

Of  what  is  't  fools  make  such  vain  keeping  ? 

Sin,  their  conception  ;  their  birth,  weeping: 

Th<  ir  life,  a  general  mist  of  error, 

Their  death,  a  hideous  storm  of  terror. 

Strew  your  hair  with  powders  sweet, 

D'on  clean  linen,  bathe  your  feet  ; 


202  ENGLISH  DRAMATIC  POETS 

And  (the  foul  fiend  more  to  check) 
A  crucifix  let  bless  your  neck. 

Dow  full  tide  'twoen  night  and  day  : 
End  your  groan,  and  come  away. 

Car.  Hence,  villains,  tyrants, murderers :  alas! 
What  will  you  do  with  my  lady  ?     Call  for  help. 

Duch.  To  whom  ;  to  our  next  neighbors  ?    They  are  mad  folks. 
Farewell,  Cariola. 

I  pray  thee  look  thou  giv'st  my  little  boy 
Some  syrup  for  his  cold  ;  and  let  the  girl 
Say  her  pray'rs  ere  she  sleep. — Now  what  you  please ; 
Whal  death  ? 

Bos.  Strangling.     Here  are  your  executioners. 

Duch.  I  forgive  them. 
The  apoplexy,  catarrh,  or  cough  o'  the  lungs, 
Would  do  as  much  as  thev  do. 

Bos.  Doth  not  death  fright  you  ? 

Duch.   Who  would  be  afraid  on  't, 
Knowing  to  meet  such  excellent  company 
In  th'  other  world. 

Bos.  Yet  methinks, 
The  manner  of  your  death  should  much  afHict  you  ; 
This  cord  should  terrify  you. 

Duch.  Not  a  whit. 
What  would  it  pleasure  me  to  have  my  throat  cut 
"With  diamonds  ?  or  to  be  smothered 
With  cassia  ?  or  to  be  shot  to  death  with  pearls  ? 
I  know,  death  hath  ten  thousand  several  doors 
For  men  to  take  their  exits ;   and  'tis  found 
They  go  on  such  strange  geometrical  hinges, 
You  may  open  them  both  ways :  any  way:  (for  heav'n  sake) 
So  I  were  out  of  your  whispering  :  tell  my  brothers, 
That  I  perceive,  death  (now  I'm  well  awake) 
Best  gift  is,  they  can  give  or  I  can  take. 
I  would  fain  put  off  my  last  woman's  fault ; 
I'd  not  be  tedious  to  you. 
Pull,  and  pull  strongly,  for  your  able  strength 
Must  pull  down  heaven  upon  me. 


3  OF  MALFY  203 


Yet  stay,  heaven  gates  are  not  so  highly  arch'd 

As  princes'  palaces  ;  they  that  enter  there 

Must  go  upon  their  knees.     Come,  violent  death, 

Serve  for  Mandragora  to  make  me  sleep, 

Go  tell  my  brothers ;   when  I  am  laid  out, 

They  then  may  feed  in  quiet.  [They  strangle  her  kneeling. 

Ferdinand  enters. 

Ferd.    Is  she  dead  ? 

Bos.  She  is  what  you  would  have  her. 
Fix  your  eye  here. 

Ferd.  Constantly. 

Bos.  Do  you  not  weep  ? 
Other  sins  only  speak  ;   murder  shrieks  out. 
The  element  of  water  moistens  the  earth, 
But  blood  flies  upwards  and  bedews  the  heavens. 

Ferd.  Cover  her  face  :  mine  eyes  dazzle  :  she  died  young. 

Bos.  I  think  not  so  :  her  infelicity 
Seem'd  to  have  years  too  many. 

Ferd.   She  and  1  were  twins ; 
And  should  I  die  this  instant,  I  had  lived 
Her  time  to  a  minute.* 

*  All  the  several  parts  of  the  dreadful  apparatus  with  which  the  Duchess's 
death  is  usher'd  in,  are  not  more  remote  from  the  conceptions  of  ordinary 
vengeance,  than  the  strange  character  of  suffering  which  they  seem  to  bring 
upon  their  victims,  is  beyond  the  imagination  of  ordinary  poets.  As  they 
are  not  like  inflictions  of  this  life,  so  her  language  seems  not  of  this  world. 
She  has  lived  among  horrors  till  she  is  become  "  native  and  endowed  unto 
that  element  "  She  speaks  the  dialect  of  despair,  her  tongue  has  a  snatch 
of  Tartarus  and  the  souls  in  bale. — What  are  "  Luke's  iron  crown,"  the 
brazen  bull  of  Perillus,  Procrustes'  bed,  to  the  waxen  images  which  coun- 
terfeit  death,  to  the  wild  mas  ;ue  of  madmen,  the  tomb-maker,  the  bell- 
man, the  living  person's  dirge,  the  mortification  by  degrees  !  To  move'a 
lt'ull\ .  to  touch  a  soul  to  the  quick,  to  by  upon  fear  as  much  as  it 
can  bear,  to  wean  and  wearj  a  life  till  it    -  to  drop,  and  then  step  in 

with  mortal  instruments  to  take  its  last  forfeit :  this  only  a  Webster  can  do. 
Writers  of  an  inferior  genius  may  "  upon  horror's  head  horrors  accumulate," 
but  they  cannot  do  this.  They  mistak-  quantity  for  quality;  they  "  terrify 
babes  with  painted  devils,"  but  they  know  not  how  a  soul  is  capable  of 
being  moved  ;    their  terrors  want  dignity,  their  affrightments  are  without 


• 


204  ENGLISH  DRAMATIC  POETS. 


Single  Life. 

0  fie  upon  this  single  life  :  forego  it. 

\\Y  read  !i<>u  Daphne,  for  her  peevish  flight, 

Became  a  fruitless  bay-tree:  Syrinx  turn'd 

To  the  pale  empty  reed  :  Anaxarate 

Was  frozen  into  marble  ;   whereas  those 

Which  married,  or  prov'd  kind  unto  their  friends, 

Were,  by  a  gracious  influence,  trans-shap'd 

Into  the  olive,  pomgranate,  mulberry  ; 

Became  flowers,  precious  stones,  or  eminent  stars. 

Fable. 
Upon  a  time,  Reputation,  Love,  and  Death, 
Would  travel  o'er  the  world :  and  'twas  concluded 
That  they  should  part,  and  take  three  several  ways. 
Death  told  them,  they  should  find  him  in  great  battles, 
Or  cities  plagued  with  plagues :  Love  gives  them  counsel 
To  inquire  for  him  'mongst  unambitious  shepherds, 
Where  dowries  were  not  talked  of;  and  sometimes, 
'Mongst  quiet  kindred  that  had  nothing  left 
By  their  dead  parents :  stay,  quoth  Reputation  ; 
Do  not  forsake  me,  for  it  is  my  nature, 
If  once  I  part  from  any  man  I  meet, 

1  am  never  found  again. 

Another. 
A  Salmon,  as  she  swam  unto  the  sea, 
Met  with  a  Dog-fish  ;  who  encounters  her 
With  his  rough  language  ;  why  art  thou  so  bold 
To  mix  thyself  with  our  high  state  of  floods  ? 
Being  no  eminent  courtier,  but  one 
That  for  the  calmest  and  fresh  time  of  the  year 
Dost  live  in  shallow  rivers,  rank'st  thyself 
With  silly  Smelts  and  Shrimps  : — and  darest  thou 
Pass  by  our  Dog-ship  without  reverence  ? 
O  (quoth  the  Salmon)  sister,  be  at  peace, 
Thank  Jupiter  we  both  have  past  the  net. 
Our  value  never  can  be  truly  known, 
Till  in  the  fisher's  basket  we  be  shown  : 


THE  WHITE  DEVIL.  205 


In  the  market  then  my  price  may  be  the  higher ; 

Even  when  I  am  nearest  to  the  cook  and  lire. 

So  to  great  men  the  moral  may  be  stretched : 

Men  oft  are  valued  high  when  they  are  most  wretched. 


THE  WHITE  DEVIL:  OR,  VITTORIA  COROMBOXA,  A  LADY  OF 
VENICE.     A  TRAGEDY.     BY  JOHX  WEBSTER.* 

The  arraignment  of  Vittoria— Paulo  Giordano  Ursini,  Duke  of  Brachi- 
ano,for  (he  love  of  Vittoria  Corombona,  a  Venetian  Lady,  and  at  her 
suggestion*,  causes  her  husband  Camillo  to  be  murdered.  Suspicion 
falls  upon  Vittoria,  who  is  tried  at  Rome,  on  a  double  charge  of  Mur- 
der and  Incontinence,  in  the  presence  of  Cardinal  Monticelso,  Cousin 
to  the  deceased  Camillo ;  Francisco  de  Medicis,  Brother-in-Law  to 
Brachiano  ;  the  Embassadors  of  France,  Spain,  England,  &fc.  As  the 
arraignment  is  b>  ginning,  the  Duke  confidently  enters  the  Court. 

Mon.  Forbear,  my  Lord,  here  is  no  place  assign'd  you : 
This  business,  by  his  holiness,  is  left 
To  our  examination. 

*  The  Author's  Dedication  to  this  Play  is  so  modest,  yet  so  conscious  of 
self-merit  withal,  he  speaks  so  frankly  of  the  deservings  of  others,  and  by 
implication  insinuates  his  own  deserts  so  ingenuously,  that  I  cannot  forbear 
inserting  it,  as  a  specimen  how  a  man  may  praise  himself  gracefully  and 
commend  others  without  suspicion  of  envy. 
"  To  the  Reader. 

"  In  publishing  this  Tragedy,  I  do  but  challenge  to  myself  that  liberty 
which  other  men  have  taken  before  me  ;  not  that  I  affect  praise  by  it,  for 
no*  hcec  novimus  esse  nihil;  only  since  it  was  acted  in  so  open  and  black  a 
theatre,  that  it  wanted  (that  which  is  the  only  grace  and  setting  out  of  a 
tragedy)  a  full  and  understanding  auditory;  and  that,  since  that  time  I  have 
noted  most  of  the  people  that  come  to  that  play-house  resemble  those  igno- 
rant asses  (who,  visiting  stationers'  shops,  their  use  is  not  to  inquire 
for  good  books,  but  new  books)  I  present  it  to  the  general  view  with  this 
confidence, 

..We  rhnnens  mcturs  malignorum 
JVec  seombris  tunicas  dabis  molestas. 

If  it  be  objected  this  is  no  true  dramatic  poem,  I  shall  easily  confess  it,  non 
potes  in  nugas  ulcere plura  meas,  ipse  ego  quam  dixi  ;  willingly,  and  not 
ignorantly,  have  I  faulted.  For  should  ^man  present,  to  such  an  auditory, 
the  most  sententious  tragedy  that  ever  was  written,  observing  all  the  critical 


806  ENGLISH   UkAMATIC  POETS. 


Bra.  May  it  thrive  with  you. 

Fra.  A  chair  there  for  his  lordship.  [Lays  a  rich  gown  under  him 

Bra.  Forbear  your  kindness  ;  an  unbidden  guest 
Should  travel  as  Dutch  women  go  to  church, 
Bear  their  stool  with  them. 

Mon.  At  your  pleasure,  Sir, 
Stand  to  the  table,  gentlewoman. — Now.  Signior, 
Fall  to  your  plea. 

Lawyer.  Domine  judex  converte  oculos  in  hanc  pestem  mulierum 
corrupt issimam. 

Vit.  What 's  he  ? 

Fra.  A  lawyer,  that  pleads  against  you. 

Vit.  Pray,  my  Lord,  let  him  speak  his  usual  tongue, 
I  '11  make  no  answer  else. 

Fra.   Why,  you  understand  Latin. 

laws,  as  height  of  style,  and  gravity  of  person,  enrich  it  with  the  sententious 
chorus,  and,  as  it  were,  enliven  death,  in  the  passionate  and  weighty  Nun- 
tius:  yel  ; i iter  all  this  divine  rapture,  O  dura  messorum  ilia,  the  breath 
that  comes  from  the  uncapable  multitude  is  able  to  poison  it;  and  ere  it  be 
acted,  let  the  author  resolve  to  fix  to  every  scene  this  of  Horace : 

Hcec  hodie porcis  comedenda  relinques. 

"  To  those  who  report  I  was  a  long  time  in  finishing  this  Tragedy, 
I  confess,  I  do  not  write  with  a  goose-quill  wing'd  with  two  feathers  :  and 
if  they  will  needs  make  it  my  fault,  I  must  answer  them  with  that  of  Euri- 
pides to  Alcestides,  a  tragic  writer:  Alcestides  objecting  that  Euripides 
had  only,  in  three  days,  composed  three  verses,  whereas  himself  had  written 
three  hundred:  Thou  tell'st  truth  (quoth  he);  but  here's  the  difference, 
thine  shall  only  be  read  for  three  days,  whereas  mine  shall  continue 
three  ages. 

"  Detraction  is  the  sworn  friend  to  ignorance:  for  mine  own  part,  I  have 
ever  truly  cherish'd  my  good  opinion  of  other  men's  worthy  labors,  espe- 
cially of  that  full  and  heighten'd  stile  of  Master  Chapman,  the  labor'd  and 
understanding  works  of  Master  Jonson,  the  no  less  worthy  composures  of 
the  both  worthily  excellent  Master  Beaumont  and  Master  Fletcher;  and 
lastly  (without  wrong  last  to  be  named),  the  right  happy  and  copious 
industry  of  Master  Shakspeare,  Master  Decker,  and  Master  Heywood,  wish- 
ing what  I  write  may  be  read  by  their  light ;  protesting,  that  in  the  strength 
of  mine  own  judgment,  I  know  them  so  worthy,  that  tho'  I  rest  silent  in 
my  own  work,  yet  to  most  of  theirs,  I  dare  (without  flattery)  to  fix  that  ot 
Martial  :  nnn  norunt  htvr  monumenta  mori." 


THE  WHITE  DEVIL.  207 

Vit.  I  do,  Sir,  but  amongst  this  auditory 
Which  come  to  hear  my  cause,  the  half  or  more 
May  be  ignorant  in  't. 

Man.  Go  on,  Sir. 

Vit.  By  your  favor, 
I  will  not  have  my  accusation  clouded 
In  a  strange  tongue  :  all  this  assembly 
Shall  hear  what  you  can  charge  me  with. 

Fra.  Signior, 
You  need  not  stand  on  't  much  ;  pray,  change  your  language. 

Mon.  Oh,  for  God's  sake  !  gentlewoman,  your  credit 
Shall  be  more  famous  by  it. 

Law.   Well  then  have  at  you. 

Vit.  I  am  the  mark,  Sir,  I  '11  give  aim  to  you, 
And  tell  you  how  near  you  shoot. 

Law.  Most  lite  rated  judges,  please  your  lordships 
So  to  connive  your  judgments  to  the  view 
Of  this  debauch'd  and  diversivolent  woman  : 
Who  such  a  concatenation 
Of  mischief  hath  effected,  that  to  extirp 
The  memory  of  it,  must  be  the  consummation 
Of  her  and  her  projections. 

Vit.  What 's  all  this  ? 

Law.  Hold  your  peace  ! 
Exorbitant  sins  must  have  exulceration. 

Vit.  Surely,  my  Lords,  this  lawyer  hath  swallowed 
Some  apothecaries  bills,  or  proclamations ; 
And  now  the  hard  and  undigestible  words 
Come  up  like  stones  we  use  give  hawks  for  physic. 
Why,  this  is  Welch  to  Latin. 

Law.   My  Lords,  the  woman 
Knows  not  her  tropes,  nor  is  perfect 
In  the  academick  derivation 
Of  grammatical  elocution 

Fra.  Sir,  your  pains 
Shall  be  well  spared,  and  your  deep  eloquence 
Be  worthily  applauded  among  those 
Which  understand  you. 


208  ENGLISH  DRAMATIC  POETS. 


Law.   My  good  Lord. 

l'ra.  Sir, 
Put  up  your  papers  in  your  fustian  bag  ; 

[Francisco  speaks  this  as  in  scorn. 
Cry  mercy,  Sir,  'tis  buckram,  and  accept 
My  notion  of  your  learn'd  verbosity. 

Law.  I  most  graduatically  thank  your  lordship ; 
I  shall  have  use  for  them  elsewhere. 

Mon.  (to  Vittoria.)  I  shall  be  plainer  with  you,  and  paint  out 
Your  follies  in  more  natural  red  and  white, 
Than  that  upon  your  cheek. 

Vit.  O  you  mistake, 
You  raise  a  blood  as  noble  in  this  cheek 
As  ever  was  your  mother's. 

Mon.  I  must  spare  you,  till  proof  cry  whore  to  that. 
Observe  this  creature  here,  my  honor'd  Lords, 
A  woman  of  a  most  prodigious  spirit. 

Vit.  My  honorable  Lord, 
It  doth  not  suit  a  reverend  Cardinal 
To  play  the  Lawyer  thus. 

Mon.  Oh  your  trade  instructs  your  language. 
You  see,  my  Lords,  what  goodly  fruit  she  seems, 
Yet  like  those  apples  travellers  report 
To  grow  where  Sodom  and  Gomorrah  stood, 
I  will  but  touch  her,  and  you  straight  shall  see 
She  '11  fall  to  soot  and  ashes. 

Vit.  Your  invenom'd  apothecary  should  do  't. 

Mon.  I  am  resolved, 
Were  there  a  second  paradise  to  lose, 
This  devil  would  betray  it. 

Vit.   O  poor  charity, 
Thou  art  seldom  found  in  scarlet. 

Mon.   Who  knows  not  how,  when  several  night  by  night 
Her  gates  w<  re  choakt  with  coaches,  and  her  rooms 
Outbrav'd  the  stars  with  several  kinds  of  lights ; 
When  she  did  counterfeit  a  Prince's  court 
In  music,  banquets,  and  most  riotous  surfeits  ; 
This  whore  forsooth  was  holy. 


THE  WHITE  DEVIL.  209 

Vit.   Ha  !  whore  ?  what 's  that  ? 

Mon.  Shall  I  expound  whore  to  you?  sure  I  shall. 
I  'II  give  their  perfect  character.     They  are  first, 
Sweetmeats  which  rot  the  eater:   In  man's  nostrils 
Poison 'd  perfumes.     They  are  cozening  alchymy  ; 
Shipwrecks  in  calmest  weather.      What  are  whores? 
Cold  Russian  winters,  that  appear  so  barren, 
As  if  that  nature  had  forgot  the  spring. 
They  are  the  true  material  fire  of  hell. 
Worse  than  those  tributes  i'  th'  low  countries  paid, 
Exactions  upon  meat,  drink,  garments,  sleep  ; 
Ay  even  on  man's  perdition,  his  sin. 
They  are  those  brittle  evidences  of  law, 
Which  forfeit  all  a  wretched  man's  estate 
For  leaving  out  one  syllable.      What  are  whores  ? 
They  are  those  flattering  bells  have  all  one  tune, 
At  weddings  and  at  funerals.     Your  rich  whores 
Are  only  treasuries  by  extortion  filPd, 
And  empty'd  by  curs'd  riot.     They  are  worse, 
Worse  than  dead  bodies,  which  are  begg'd  at  th'  gallows, 
A.nd  wrought  upon  by  surgeons,  to  teach  man 
Wherein  he  is  imperfect.     What 's  a  whore  ? 
She  ;s  like  the  guilt  counterfeited  coin, 
Which,  whosoe'er  first  stamps  it,  brings  in  trouble 
All  that  receive  it. 

Vit.  This  character  'scapes  me. 

Mon.  You,  gentlewoman  ? 
Take  from  all  beasts  and  from  all  minerals 
Their  deadly  poison — 

Vit.  Well,  what  then  ? 

Mon.   I  '11  tell  thee  ; 
I  '11  find  in  (bee  an  apothecary's  shop, 
To  sample  them  all. 

Fr.  Emb.  She  hath  lived  ill. 

En.  Emb.   True,  but  the  Cardinal  's  too  bitter, 

Mon.  You  know  what  whore  is.     Next  the  devil  adult'ry, 
Enters  the  devil  murder. 
part  I.  15 


21"  ENGLISH  DRAMATIC  POETS. 


Fra.  Your  unhappy  husband 
Is  dead. 

Vit.  O  he  's  a  happy  husband, 
Now  he  owes  Nature  nothing. 

Fra.  And  by  a  vaulting  engine. 

Mori.  An  active  plot : 
1  i"  jumpt  into  his  grave. 

Fra.   What  a  prodigy  was 't, 
That  from  sonic  two  yards  high,  a  slender  man 
Should  break  his  neck  ? 

Mon.  Fth'  rushes! 

Fra.  And  what 's  more, 
Upon  the  instant  lose  all  use  of  speech, 
All  vital  motion,  like  a  man  had  lain 
Wound  up  three  days.     Now  mark  each  circumstance. 

Mon.  And  look  upon  this  creature  was  his  wife. 
She  comes  not  like  a  widow  :  she  comes  arm'd 
With  scorn  and  impudence  :  is  this  a  mourning-habit  ? 

Vit.  Had  I  foreknown  his  death  as  you  suggest, 
1  would  have  bespoke  my  mourning. 

Mon.  O  you  are  cunning ! 

Vit.  You  shame  your  wit  and  judgment, 
To  call  it  so;   what,  is  my  just  defence 
By  him  that  is  my  judge  call'd  impudence  ? 
Let  me  appeal  then  from  this  christian  court 
To  the  uncivil  Tartar. 

Mon.  See,  my  lords, 
She  scandals  our  proceedings. 

Vit.   Humbly  thus, 
Thus  low.  to  the  most  worthy  and  respected 
Leiger  embassadors,  my  modesty 
And  woman-hood  I  tender ;   but  withall, 
So  entangled  in  a  cursed  accusation, 
That  my  defence,  of  force,  like  Perseus, 
Must  personate  masculine  virtue.     To  the  point. 
Find  me  but  guilty,  sever  head  from  body, 
We  '11  part  good  friends :  I  scorn  to  hold  my  life 
At  yours,  or  any  man's  intreaty,  Sir. 


THE  WHITE  DEVIL.  211 


En.  Emb.  She  hath  a  brave  spirit. 

Mon.  Well,  well,  such  counterfeit  jewels 
Make  true  ones  oft  suspected. 

T7/.  You  are  deceived  ; 
For  know,  that  all  your  strict  combined  heads, 
Which  strike  against  this  mine  of  diamonds, 
Shall  prove  but  glassen  hammers,  they  shall  break. 
These  are  but  feigned  shadows  of  my  evils. 
Terrify  babes,  my  Lord,  with  painted  devils ; 
I  am  past  such  needless  palsy.     For  your  names 
Of  whore  and  murdress,  they  proceed  from  you, 
As  if  a  man  should  spit  against  the  wind 
The  filth  returns  in  's  face. 

Mon.  Pray  you,  mistress,  satisfy  me  one  question : 
Who  lodg'd  beneath  your  roof  that  fatal  night 
Your  husband  brake  his  neck  ? 

Bra.  That  question 
Inforceth  me  break  silence ;  I  was  there. 

Mon.  Your  business  ) 

Bra .  Why,  I  came  to  comfort  her, 
And  take  some  course  for  settling  her  estate, 
Because  I  heard  her  husband  was  in  debt 
To  you,  my  Lord. 

Mon.  He  was. 

Bra.  And  'twas  strangely  feard 
That  you  would  cozen  her. 

Mon.   Who  made  you  overseer  ? 

Bra.   Why,  my  charity,  my  charity,  which  should  flow 
From  every  generous  and  noble  spirit, 
To  orphans  and  to  widows. 

Mon.  Your  lust. 

Bra.  Cowardly  dogs  bark  loudest !  sirrah,  priest, 

I'll  talk  with  you  hereafter. Do  you  hear  ? 

The  sword  you  frame  of  such  an  excellent  temper, 
I'll  sheath  in  your  own  bowels. 
There  are  a  number  of  thy  coat  resemble 
Your  common  post-boy-. 

Mm.  Ha  ! 


il.lSil   DR  \M  VTIC  POETS. 


Bra.  Your  mere  ;nary  post-boys. 
^  our  letters  carry  truth,  but  'tis  your  guise 
To  till  your  mouths  with  gross  and  impudent  lies. 

Servant.  My  Lord,  your  gown. 

Bra.  Thou  liest,  'twas  my  stool. 
Bestow  't  uj>ou  thy  master,  that  will  challenge 
The  rest  o'  th'  household  stuff,  for  Brachiano 
^  ;is  ne'er  so  beggarly  to  take  a  stool 
Out  of  another's  lodging  :  let  him  make 
Vallance  for  his  bed  on't,  or  demy  foot-cloth 
For  his  most  reverend  moile.     Monticelso,  nemo  me  impune  laces- 
sit.  [Exit  Brachiano. 

Mon.  Your  champion's  gone. 

Vit.  The  wolf  may  prey  the  better. 

Fra.   My  Lord,  there's  great  suspicion  of  the  murder, 
But  no  sound  proof  who  did  it.     For  my  part, 
I  do  not  think  she  hath  a  soul  so  black 
To  act  a  deed  so  bloody  :  if  she  have, 
As  in  cold  countries  husband-men  plant  vines, 
And  with  warm  blood  manure  them,  even  so 
One  summer  she  will  bear  unsavory  fruit, 
And  ere  next  spring  wither  both  branch  and  root. 
The  act  of  blood  let  pass,  only  descend 
To  matter  of  incontinence. 

Vit.  I  discern  poison 
Under  your  gilded  pills. 

Mon.  Now  the  Duke's  gone  I  will  produce  a  letter, 
Wherein  twas  plotted,  he  and  you  shall  meet, 
At  an  apothecary's  summer-house, 
Down  by  the  river  Tiber.     View  't,  my  Lords  j 
Where  after  wanton  bathing  and  *he  heat 
Of  a  lascivious  banquet. — I  pray  read  it. — 
I  shame  to  speak  the  rest. 

Vit.   Grant  I  was  tempted  ; 
Temptation  proves  not  the  act : 
Casta  est  quam  nemo  rogavit. 
You  read  his  hot  love  to  me,  but  you  want 
My  frosty  answer. 


THE  WHITE  DEVIL.  213 


Mon.  Frost  i'  th'  dog-days  !  strange  ! 

Vit.  Condemn  you  me  for  that  the  Duke  did  love  me  ; 
So  may  you  blame  some  fair  and  crystal  river 
For  that  some  melancholic  distracted  man 
Hath  drown'd  himself  in  't. 

Mon.  Truly  drown'd,  indeed. 

Vit.  Sum  up  my  faults,  1  pray,  and  you  shall  find, 
That  beauty  and  gay  clothes,  a  merry  heart, 
And  a  good  stomach  to  feast,  are  all, 
All  the  poor  crimes  that  you  can  charge  me  with. 
In  faith,  my  Lord,  you  might  go  pistol  Hies, 
The  sport  would  be  more  noble. 

Mon.  Very  good. 

Vit.  But  take  you  your  course,  it  seems  you've  begg'd  me  first, 
And  now  would  fain  undo  me.     I  have  houses, 
Jewels,  and  a  poor  remnant  of  crusadoes  ; 
Would  these  would  make  you  charitable. 

Mon.  If  the  devil 
Did  ever  take  good  shape,  behold  his  picture. 

Vit.  You  have  one  virtue  left, 
You  will  not  flatter  me. 

Fra.   Who  brought  this  letter  ? 

Vit.   I  am  not  compell'd  to  tell  you. 

Mon.  My  Lord  Duke  sent  to  you  a  thousand  ducats, 
The  twelfth  of  August. 

Vit.  'Twas  to  keep  your  cousin* 
From  prison,  I  paid  use  for  't. 

Mon.   I  rather  think, 
'Twas  interest  for  his  lust. 

Vit.  Who  says  so  but  yourself?  if  you  be  my  accuser, 
Pray  cease  to  be  my  judge  ;  come  from  the  bench, 
Give  in  your  evidence  against  me,  and  let  these 
Be  moderators.     My  Lord  Cardinal, 
Were  your  intelligencing  ears  as  loving, 
As  to  my  thoughts,  had  you  an  honest  tongue, 
1  would  not  care  though  you  proclaim'd  them  all. 

Mon.  Go  to,  go  to. 

*  Hei  husband  Camillo,  who  waa  cousin  to  Monticelso. 


214  ENGLISH   DRAMATIC  POETS. 


After  your  goodly  and  vain-glorious  banquet, 
I  '11  give  you  a  choak-pear. 

Vit.  Of  your  own  grafting  ? 

Mmi.  You  were  born  in  Venice,  honorably  descended 
From  the  Vittelli ;   'twas  my  cousin's  fate, 
111  may  I  name  the  hour,  to  marry  you  ; 
He  bought  you  of  your  father. 
Vit.  Ha! 

Mon.   He  spent  there  in  six  months 
Twelve  thousand  ducats,  and  (to  my  knowledge) 
Receiv'd  in  dowry  with  you  not  one  julio. 
'Twas  a  hard  penny-worth,  the  ware  being  so  light. 
I  yet  but  draw  the  curtain,  now  to  your  picture  : 
You  came  from  thence  a  most  notorious  strumpet, 
And  so  you  have  continued. 
Vit.  My  Lord  ! 

Mon.  Nay  hear  me, 

You  shall  have  time  to  prate.     My  Lord  Brachiano 

Alas  !  I  make  but  repetition, 

Of  what  is  ordinary  and  Ryalto  talk, 

And  ballated,  and  would  be  plaid  o'  th'  stage 

But  that  vice  many  times  finds  such  loud  friends, 

That  preachers  are  charm'd  silent. 

Your  public  fault, 

Join'd  to  th'  condition  of  the  present  time,    » 

Takes  from  you  all  the  fruits  of  noble  pity, 

Such  a  corrupted  trial  have  you  made 

Both  of  your  life  and  beauty,  and  been  styl'd 

No  less  an  ominous  fate,  than  blazing  stars 

To  Princes.     Hear  your  sentence  ;  you  are  coniin'd 

Unto  a  house  of  converts. 

Vit.  A  house  of  converts!  what's  that? 

Mon.  A  house  of  penitent  whores. 

Vit.  Do  the  Noblemen  in  Rome 
Erect  it  for  their  wives,  that  I  am  sent 
To  lodge  there  ? 

Fra.  You  must  have  patience. 

Vit.  I  must  first  have  vengeance. 


o 


TUK   UlillT.   !JF.\  IL.  215 


1  fain  would  know  it'  you  have  your  salvation 
Bv  patent;  that  you  proceed  thus. 

Man.   Away  with  her, 
Take  her  hence. 

Vit.  A  rape  !  a  rape  ! 

Mon.  How  ? 

Vit.  Yes,  you  have  ravish'd  justice  ; 
Forc'd  her  to  do  your  pleasure. 

Mon.  Fie,  she  's  mad  ! 

Vit.  Die  with  those  pills  in  your  most  cursed  maw, 
Should  bring  you  health  !  or  while  you  set  o'  th'  bench, 
Let  your  own  spittle  choak  you  ! 

Mon.  She's  turn'd  fury. 

Vit.  That  the  last  day  of  judgment  may  so  find  you, 
And  leave  you  the  same  Devil  you  were  before  ! 
Instruct  me  some  good  horse-leach  to  speak  treason, 
For  since  you  cannot  take  my  life  for  deeds, 
Take  it  for  words:  O  woman's  poor  revenge  ! 
W  Inch  dwells  but  in  the  tongue.     I  will  not  weep. 
No ;   I  do  scorn  to  call  up  one  poor  tear 
To  fawn  on  your  injustice  ;  bear  me  hence 
Unto  this  house  of what's  your  mitigating  title  ? 

Mon.  Of  converts. 

Vit.  It  shall  not  be  a  house  of  converts ; 
My  mind  shall  make  it  honester  to  me 
Than  the  Pope's  palace,  and  more  peaceable 
Than  thy  soul,  though  thou  art  a  Cardinal, 
Know  this,  and  let  it  somewhat  raise  your  spight, 
Through  darkness  diamonds  spread  their  richest  light.* 

*  This  White  Devil  of  Italy  sets  off  a  bad  cause  so  speciously,  and  pleads 
with  such  an  innocence-resembling  boldness,  that  we  seem  to  see  that 
matchless  beauty  of  her  face  which  inspires  such  gaj  confidence  into  her  ; 
and  arc  ready  to  expect,  when  she  has  done  her  pleadings,  that  her  very 
judges,  her  accusers,  the  grave  ambassadors  who  sit  as  spectators,  and  all  the 
court,  will  rise  and  make  proffer  to  defend  her  in  spite  of  the  utmost  con- 
viction of  her  guilt :  as  the  shepherds  in  Don  Quixote  make  proffer  tc 
follow  the  beautiful  shepherdess  Marcela  "  without  reaping  any  proti  out 
of  her  manifest  resolution  made  there  in  their  hearing." — 

So  sweet  and  lovely  does  she  make  the  shame, 
Which,  like  a  canker  in  the  fragrant  rose, 
Does  spot  the  beauty  of  her  budding  name  ! 


216  ENGLISH  DRAMATIC  POETS. 


Marcello  and  Flamineo,  Sons  to  Cornelia,  having  quarrelled  ;  Flamineo 
s/ays  his  brother  Marcello,  tin  ir  mother  being  present. 

Cornelia.     Marcello. 

Cor.   I  hear  a  whispering  all  about  the  court, 
^  i'ii  are  to  fight :   who  is  your  opposite  ? 
What  is  the  quarrel  ? 

Mar.   'Tis  an  idle  rumor. 

Cor.   Will  you  dissemble?  sure  you  do  not  well 
To  fright  me  thus :  you  never  look  thus  pale, 
But  when  you  are  most  angry.     I  do  charge  you, 
Upon  my  blessing  ;  nay  I'll  call  the  Duke, 
And  he  shall  school  you. 

Mar.  Publish  not  a  fear, 
Which  would  convert  to  laughter  :   'tis  not  so. 
Was  not  this  crucifix  my  father's  ? 

Cor.  Yes. 

Mar.   I  have  heard  you  say,  giving  my  brother  suck, 
He  took  the  crucifix  between  his  hands, 
And  broke  a  limb  off. 

Cor.  Yes ;  but  'tis  mended. 

Flamineo  enters. 

Fla.  I  have  brought  your  weapon  back. 

[Flamineo  runs  Makcello  througn. 
Cor.   Ha,  oh  my  horror  ! 
Mar.  You  have  brought  it  home,  indeed. 
Cor.  Help,  oh  he's  murder'd  ! 

Fla.  Do  you  turn  your  gall  up  ?     I'll  to  the  sanctuary, 
And  send  a  surgeon  to  you.  [Exit  Flam. 

Hoetensius  (an  Officer)  enters. 

Hor.  How,  o'  th'  ground  ? 

Mar.   O  mother,  now  remember  what  I  told 
Of  breaking  off  the  crucifix.     Farewell. 
There  are  some  sins,  which  heaven  doth  duly  punish 
In  a  whole  family.     This  it  is  to  rise 
By  all  dishonest  means.     Let  all  men  know, 


,  IL.  217 

That  tree  shall  long  time  keep  a  steady  foot, 
Whose  branches  spread  no  wider  than  the  root. 
Cor.   O  my  perpetual  sorrow  ! 
Hor.   Virtuous  Marcello  ! 
He's  dead.     Pray  leave  him,  lady  :  come,  you  shall. 

Cor.  Alas  !  he  is  not  dead  ;   he's  in  a  trance. 
Why,  here's  nobody  shall  get  anything  by  his  death. 
Let  me  call  him  again,  for  God's  sake  ! 
Hor.  I  would  you  were  deceived. 
Cor.  O  you  abuse  me,  you  abuse  me,  you  abuse  me  ! 
How  many  have  gone  away  thus,  for  lack  of  'tendance  ! 
Rear  up  's  head,  rear  up  's  head  ;  his  bleeding  inward  will   kill 
him. 
Hor.   You  see  he  is  departed. 

Cor.  Let  me  come  to  him  ;  give  me  him  as  he  is  ;  if  he  be 
turn'd  to  earth,  let  me  but  give  him  one  hearty  kiss,  and 
you  shall  put  us  both  into  one  coffin.  Fetch  a  looking- 
glass,  see  if  his  breath  will  not  stain  it ;  or  pull  out 
some  feathers  from  my  pillow,  and  lay  them  to  his  lips : 
will  you  lose  him  for  a  little  pains  taking  ? 
Hor.  Your  kindest  office  is  to  pray  for  him. 
Cor.  Alas  !  I  would  not  pray  for  him  yet.  He  may  live  to  lay 
me  i'  th'  ground,  and  pray  for  me,  if  you'll  let  me  come 
to  him. 

The  Duke  enters  with  Flamineo,  and  Page. 

Bra.  Was  this  your  handy- work  ? 

Fla.   It  was  my  misfortune. 

Cor.   He  lies,  he  lies;  he  did  not  kill  him:  these   have  kill'd 

him,  that  would  not  let  him  be  better  look'd  to. 
Bra.  Have  comfort,  my  griev'd  mother. 
Cor.  O  yon'  screech-owl ! 
Hor.  Forbear,  good  Madam. 
Cor.   Let  me  go,  let  me  go. 

[She  runs  to  Flamineo  with  her  knife  draivn, 
and  coming  to  him.  lets  il  fall. 
The  God  of  heaven  forgive  thee.     Dost  not  wonder 
I  pray  for  thee  ?     I'll  tell  thee  what's  the  reason  ; 


818  ENGLISH   DRAMATIC  POETS 


1  have  scarce  breath  to  number  twenty  minutes; 
I'd  not  spend  that  in  cursing.      Fare  thee  well : 
Half  of  thyself  lies  there  :  and  may'st  thou  live  * 
To  fill  an  hour-glass  with  his  moulder'd  ashes, 
To  tell  how  thou  should 'st  spend  the  time  to  come 
In  blest  repentance. 

Bra.  Mother,  pray  tell  ine 
How  came  he  by  his  death  ?  what  was  the  quarrel  ? 

Cor.  Indeed,  my  younger  boy  presum'd  too  much 
Upon  his  manhood,  gave  him  bitter  words, 
Drew  his  sword  first ;   and  so,  I  know  not  how, 
For  I  was  out  of  my  wits,  he  fell  with  's  head 
Just  in  my  bosom. 

Page.  This  is  not  true,  Madam. 

Cor.  I  pr'ythee  peace. 
One  arrow  's  graz'd  already :   it  were  vain 
To  lose  this,  for  that  will  ne'er  be  found  again. 

****** 

Francisco  describes  to  Flamineo  the  grief  of  Cornelia  at  the 
funeral  of  Marceelo. 

Your  reverend  Mother 
Is  grown  a  very  old  woman  in  two  hours. 
I  found  them  winding  of  Marcello's  corse  : 
And  there  is  such  a  solemn  melody, 
'Tween  doleful  songs,  tears,  and  sad  elegies : 
Such  as  old  grandames,  watching  by  the  dead, 
Were  wont  to  outwear  the  nights  with  ;   that,  believe  me, 
I  had  no  eyes  to  guide  me  forth  the  room, 
They  were  so  o'ercharg'd  with  water. 

Funeral  Dirge  for  Mar  cello. 

[His  mother  sings  it. 
Call  for  the  Robin- red-breast  and  the  Wren, 
Since  o'er  shady  groves  they  hover, 
And  with  leaves  and  flowers  do  cover 
The  friendless  bodies  of  unburied  men. 


THE  WHITE   DEVIL.  219 


Call  unto  his  funeral  dole 

The  Ant,  the  Field-mouse,  and  the  Mole, 

To  raise  him  hillocks  that  shall  keep  him  warm, 

And  (when  gay  tombs  are  robb'd)  sustain  no  harm  ; 

But  keep  the  wolf  far  thence,  that's  foe  to  men, 

For  with  his  nails  he'll  dig  them  up  again.* 


Folded  Thoughts. 


Come,  come,  my  Lord,  unite  your  folded  thoughts, 
And  let  them  dangle  loose  as  a  bride's  hair. 
Your  sister  's  poison'd. 

Dying  Princes. 
To  see  what  solitariness  is  about  dying  Princes  !  As  heretofore 
they  have  unpeopled  towns,  divorced  friends,  and  made 
great  houses  unhospitable  !  so  now,  O  justice  !  where 
are  their  flatterers  now  ?  flatterers  are  but  the  shadows 
of  princes'  bodies,  the  least  thick  cloud  makes  them 
invisible. 

Natural  Death. 
O  thou  soft  natural  death !  that  art  joint  twin 
To  sweetest  slumber  ! — no  rough-bearded  Comet 
Stares  on  thy  mild  departure  ;  ihe  dull  Owl 
Beats  not  against  thy  casement ;  the  hoarse  Wolf 
Scents  not  thy  carrion.     Pity  winds  thy  corse, 
Whilst  horror  waits  on  princes'  

Vow  of  Murder  rebuked 
Miserable  creature, 
If  thou  persist  in  this  'tis  damnable. 
Dost  thou  imagine  thou  canst  slide  on  blood, 
And  not  be  tainted  with  a  shameful  fall  ? 
Or  like  the  black  and  melancholic  yew-tree, 
Dost  think  to  root  thyself  in  dead  men's  graves 
And  yet  to  prosper  ! 

*  I  never  saw  anything  like  this  Dir«e,  exc  -;>t  the  Ditty  which  reminds 
Ferdinand  of  his  drowned  lather  in  the  Tempest.  As  that  is  of  the  water, 
watery ;  so  this  is  of  the  earth,  earthy.  Both  have  that  intenseness  of  fee'  ■ 
ing,  which  seems  to  resolve  itself  into  the  elements  which  it  contemplates. 


220  ENGLISH  DRAMATJC  POETS. 


Dying  Man. 

See  see  how  firmly  he  doth  fix  his  eyes 

Upon  the  crucifix. 

Oh  hold  it  constant. 

It  settles  his  wild  spirits  :  and  so  his  eyes 

Melt  into  tears. 

Despair. 

O  the  cursed  Devil, 
Which  doth  present  us  with  all  other  sins 
Thrice  candied  o'er ;  despair,  with  gall  and  stibium, 
Yet  we  carouse  it  ofF. 


END   OP    PART    I. 


TABLE   OF   REFERENCE   TO  THE   EXTRACTS. 


JOHN    FORD. 

PAGE 

THE    LOVER'S    MELANCHOLY 1 

THE    ladies'    TRIAL 3 

love's   sacrifice 4 

perkin  warbeck 

'tis  pity  she's  a  whore 10 

the  broken  heart 1' 

SAMUEL    DANIEL. 
Hymen's  triumph 29 

FULKE    GREVILLE. 

alah  am 34 

mustapha 45 

BEN.    JONSON. 

THE    CASE    IS    ALTERED 58 

POETASTER "0 

SEJANTJS. ,u 

19. 
SAD     SHEPHERD 'a 

7t 
CATILINE 

no 
NEW    INN 

84 

ALCHEMIST 

91 

VOLPON  E 

FRANCIS    BEAUMONT. 
THE    TRIUMPH    OF    LOVE 1UU 


vi  PREFACE. 


FRANCIS    BEAUMONT    AND   JOHN    FLETCHER. 

PAGK 
THE    maid's    TRAGEDY , 103 

PHILASTER  ;    OR,    LOVE    LIES    A     BLEEDING 110 

CUPID's    REVENGE 120 

JOHN    FLETCHER. 

the  faithful  shepherdess 125 

the  false  one 128 

love's  pilgrimage 142 

BONDUC  A 146 

THE    BLOODY    BROTHER  ;    OR,    ROLLO 149 

THIERRY    AND    THEODORET ]  52 

WIT    WITHOUT    MONEY  . : 158 

THE    TWO    NOBLE    KINSMEN 161 

PHILIP    MASSINGER. 

THE    CITY   MADAM 172 

A    NEW    WAY   TO    PAY    OLD    DEBTS 176 

THE    PICTURE 179 

THE    PARLIAMENT    OF    LOVE 182 

A   VERY   WOMAN;    OR,    THE    PRINCE    OF    TARENT 1S5 

THE    UNNATURAL   COMBAT 187 

PHILIP    MASSINGER    AND    THOMAS    DECKER. 
THE    VIRGIN     MARTYR 189 

PHILIP    MASSINGER    AND    NATHANIEL    FIELD. 
THE    FATAL    DOWRY 191 

PHILIP    MASSINGER,  THOMAS    MIDDLETON,  AND   "WILLIAM  ROWLEY. 
THE    OLD   LAW 194 

GEORGE    CHAPMAN    AND   JAMES    SHIRLEY. 
PHILIP    CHABOT,    ADMIRAL    OF    FRANCE 201 

JAMES     SHIRLEY. 

the  maid's   revenge 207 

THE  POLITICIAN 217 

THE  BROTHERS 220 

THE  LADY    OF   PLEASURE 227 


SPECIMENS 


OF 


ENGLISH  DRAMATIC  POETS, 


THE  LOVER'S  MELANCHOLY.     BY  JOHN  FORD. 

Contention  of  a  Bird  and  a  Musician. 
Passing  from  Italy  to  Greece,  the  tales 
Which  poets  of  an  elder  time  have  feign'd 
To  glorify  their  Tempe,  bred  in  me 
Desire  of  visiting  that  paradise. 
To  Thessaly  I  came,  and  living  private, 
Without  acquaintance  of  more  sweet  companions 
Than  the  old  inmates  to  my  love,  my  thoughts, 
I  day  by  day  frequented  silent  groves, 
And  solitary  walks.     One  morning  early 
This  accident  encounter'd  me  :  I  heard 
The  sweetest  and  most  ravishing  contention 
That  art  or  nature  ever  were  at  strife  in. 
A  sound  of  music  touch'd  mine  ears,  or  rather 
Indeed  entranc'd  my  soul  :  as  I  stole  nearer, 
Invited  by  the  melody,  I  saw 
This  youth,  this  fair  fac'd  youth,  upon  his  lute 
With  strains  of  strange  variety  and  harmony 
Proclaiming  (as  it  seem'd)  so  bold  a  challenge 
To  the  clear  quiristers  of  the  woods,  the  birds, 
That  as  they  flocked  about  him.  all  stood  silent 
WoncTrino;  at  what  they  heard.      I  wonder'd  too. 
A  Nightingale, 

PART    II.  2 


ENGLISH  DRAMATIC  POETS. 


Nature's  best  skill 'd  musician,  undertakes 

The  challenge  ;   and,  for  every  several  strain 

The  well-shap'd  youth  could  touch,  she  sung  her  down  ; 

He  could  not  run  division  with  more  art 

Upon  his  quaking  instrument,  than  she 

The  nightingale  did  with  her  various  notes 

Reply  to. 

Some  time  thus  spent,  the  young  man  grew  at  last 

Into  a  pretty  anger  ;  that  a  bird, 

Whom  art  had  never  taught  clifls,  moods,  or  notes, 

Should  vie  with  him  for  mastery,  whose  study 

Had  busied  many  hours  to  perfect  practice  : 

To  end  the  controversy,  in  a  rapture, 

Upon  his  instrument  he  plays  so  swiftly, 

So  many  voluntaries,  and  so  quick, 

That  there  was  curiosity  and  cunning, 

Concord  in  discord,  lines  of  diff'ring  method 

Meeting  in  one  full  centre  of  delight. 

The  bird  (ordained  to  be 

Music' 's  first  martyr)  strove  to  imitate 

These  several  sounds  :  which  when  her  warbling  throat 

Fail'd  in,  for  grief  down  dropt  she  on  his  lute 

And  brake  her  heart.     It  was  the  quaintest  sadness, 

To  see  the  conqueror  upon  her  hearse 

To  weep  a  funeral  elegy  of  tears. 

He  looks  upon  the  trophies  of  his  art, 

Then  sigh'd,  then  wiped  his  eyes,  then  sigh'd,  and  cried, 

"  Alas,  poor  creature,  I  will  soon  revenge 

This  cruelty  upon  the  author  of  it. 

Henceforth  this  lute,  guilty  of  innocent  blood, 

Shall  never  more  betray  a  harmless  peace 

To  an  untimely  end  ;"  and  in  that  sorrow, 

As  he  was  pashing  it  against  a  tree, 

1  suddenly  stept  in. 

[This  Story,  which  is  originally  to  be  met  with  in  Strada's  Prolusions, 
has  been  paraphrased  in  rhyme  by  Crashaw,  Ambrose  Phillips,  and  others. 
but  none  of  those  versions  can  at  all  compare  for  harmony  and  grace  with 
this  blank  verse  of  Ford's  ;  Tt  is  as  fine  as  anything  in  Beaumont  and  Fletch 
er ;  and  almost  equals  the  strife  which  it  celebrates.] 


THE  LADIES  TRIAL. 


THE  LADIES  TRIAL.     BY  JOHN  FORD. 

Auria,  in  the  possession  of  Honors,  Preferment,  Fame,  can  find  no  peace 
in  his  mind  while  he  thinks  his  Wife  unchaste. 

Auria.     Aurelio. 

Anna.  Count  of  Savona,  Genoa's  Admiral, 
Lord  Governor  of  Corsica,  enroll'd 
A  Worthy  of  my  country,  sought  and  sued  to, 
Prais'd,  courted,  flatter'd  ! — 

My  triumphs 

Are  echoed  under  every  roof,  the  air 
Is  streightned  with  the  sound,  there  is  not  room 
Enough  to  brace  them  in  ;  but  not  a  thought 
Doth  pierce  into  the  grief  that  cabins  here  : 
Here  through  a  creek,  a  little  inlet,  crawls 
A  flake  no  bigger  than  a  sister's  thread, 
Which  sets  the  region  of  my  heart  a  fire. 
[  had  a  kingdom  once,  but  am  depos'd 
From  all  that  royalty  of  blest  content, 
By  a  confed'racy  'twixt  love  and  frailty. 

Aurelio.  Glories  in  public  view  but  add  to  misery, 
Which  travails  in  unrest  at  home. 

Auria.  At  home ! 
That  home,  Aurelio  speaks  of,  I  have  lost : 
And  which  is  worse,  when  I  have  roll'd  about, 
Toil'd  like  a  pilgrim,  round  this  globe  of  earth, 
Wearied  with  care,  and  over-worn  with  age, 
Lodg'd  in  the  grave,  I  am  not  yet  at  home. 
There  rots  but  half  of  me  :  the  other  part 
Sleeps,  heaven  knows  where.     Would  she  and  I,  my  wife 
I  mean,  but  what,  alas,  talk  I  of  wife  ? 
The  woman,  would  we  had  together  fed 
On  any  out-cast  parings  coarse  and  mouldy, 
Not  liv'd  divided  thus  ! 


ENGLISH  DRAMATIC  POETS. 


LOVE'S  SACRIFICE;  A  TRAGEDY.     BY  JOHN  FORD. 

Biancha,  Wife  to  Caraffa,  Duke  of  Pavia,  loves  and  is  loved  by  Fer- 
nando the  Duke's  favorite.  She  long  resists  his  importunate  suit', 
at  length  she  enters  the  room  where  he  is  sleeping  and  awakens  him,  to 
hear  her  confession  of  her  love  for  him. 

Biancha.     Ferdinand,  sleeping. 

Bian.  Resolve,  and  do  ;   'tis  done.      What,  are  those  eyes, 
Which  lately  were  so  over-drown 'd  in  tears, 
So  easy  to  take  rest  ?     O  happy  man, 
How  sweetly  sleep  hath  seal'd  up  sorrows  here  ! 
But  I  will  call  him  :  what,  my  Lord,  my  Lord, 
My  Lord  Fernando 

Fer.  Who  calls? 

Bian.  My  Lord  : 
Sleeping,  or  waking  ? 

Fer.  Ha,  who  is  't  ? 

Bian.  'Tis  I : 
Have  you  forgot  my  voice  ?  or  is  your  ear 
But  useful  to  your  eye  1 

Fer.  Madam  the  Duchess  ! 

Bian.  She,  'tis  she  ;  sit  up  : 
Sit  up  and  wonder,  whiles  my  sorrow  swell : 
The  nights  are  short  and  I  have  much  to  say. 

Fer.  Is  't  possible  'tis  you  ? 

Bian.  'Tis  possible : 
Why  do  you  think  I  come  ? 

Fer.  Why  ?  to  crown  joys, 
And  make  me  master  of  my  best  desires. 

Bian.  'Tis  true,  you  guess  aright ;  sit  up  and  listen. 
With  shame  and  passion  now  I  must  confess, 
Since  first  mine  eyes  beheld  you,  in  my  heart 
You  have  been  only  king.     If  there  can  be 
A  violence  in  love,  then  I  have  felt 
That  tyranny  ;  be  record  to  my  soul 
The  justice  which  I  for  this  folly  fear. 
Fernando,  in  short  words,  howe'er  my  tongue 
Did  often  chide  thy  love,  each  word  thou  spak'st 


LOVE'S  SACRIFICE. 


Was  music  to  my  ear  :  was  never  poor 

Poor  wretched  woman  liv'd,  that  lov'd  like  me  ; 

So  truly,  so  unfeignedly. 

Fer.  Oh  Madam 

Bian.  To  witness  that  I  speak  is  truth,  look  here ; 
Thus  singly  I  adventure  to  thy  bed, 
And  do  confess  my  weakness  :  if  thou  tempt'st 
My  bosom  to  thy  pleasures,  I  will  yield. 

Fer,  Perpetual  happiness  ! 

Bian.  Now  hear  me  out : 
When  first  CarafFa,  Pavy's  Duke,  my  Lord, 
Saw  me,  he  lov'd  me,  and  (without  respect 
Of  dower)  took  me  to  his  bed  and  bosom, 
Advanc'd  me  to  the  titles  I  possess, 
Not  mov'd  by  counsel,  or  remov'd  by  greatness: 
Which  to  requite,  betwixt  my  soul  and  heaven 
I  vow'd  a  vow  to  live  a  constant  wife. 
I  have  done  so  :  nor  was  there  in  the  world 
A  man  created,  could  have  broke  that  truth, 
For  all  the  glories  of  the  earth,  but  thou, 
But  thou,  Fernando.     Do  I  love  thee  now  ? 

Fer.  Beyond  imagination. 

Bian.  True,  I  do, 
Beyond  imagination  :  if  no  pledge 
Of  love  can  instance  what  T  speak  is  true, 
But  loss  of  my  best  joys,  here,  here,  Fernando, 
Be  satisfied  and  ruin  me. 

Fer    What  do  you  mean  ? 

Bian.  To  give  my  body  up  to  thy  embraces  ; 
A  pleasure  that  I  never  wish'd  to  thrive  in 
Before  this  fatal  minute  :  mark  me  now  ; 
If  thou  dost  spoil  me  of  this  robe  of  shame. 
By  my  best  comforts  here,  I  vow  again, 
To  thee,  to  heaven,  to  the  world,  to  time, 
Ere  vet  the  morning  shall  new  christen  day, 
I  Ml  kill  myself. 

Fer.   How,  Madam,  how  ? 

Bian.  I  will : 


ENGLISH  DRAMATIC  POETS. 


Do  what  thou  wilt,  'tis  in  thy  choice  ;   what  say  ye  ? 

Fer.  Pish,  do  you  come  to  try  me  ?  tell  me  first, < 
Will  you  but  grant  a  kiss  ? 

Bian.  Yes,  take  it ;   that, 
Or  what  thy  heart  can  wish  :  I  am  all  thine. 

Fer.  Oh  me come,  come,  how  many  women,  pray, 

Were  ever  heard  or  read  of,  granted  love, 
And  did  as  you  protest  you  will  ? 

Bian.  Fernando!  [Kneels. 

Jest  not  at  my  calamity  :  I  kneel  : 
By  these  dishcvel'd  hairs,  these  wretched  tears, 
By  all  that 's  good,  if  what  I  speak,  my  heart 
Vows  not  eternally  ;  then  think,  my  Lord, 
Was  never  man  sued  to  me  I  denied, 
Think  me  a  common  and  most  cunning  whore, 
And  let  my  sins  be  written  on  my  grave, 
My  name  rest  in  reproof.     Do  as  you  list. 

Fer.  I  must  believe  ye ;  yet  I  hope  anon, 
When  you  are  parted  from  me,  you  will  say 
I  was  a  good  cold  easy-spirited  man, 
Nay,  laugh  at  my  simplicity :  say,  will  ye  ? 

Bian.  No ;  by  the  faith  I  owe  my  bridal  vows : 
But  ever  hold  thee  much  much  dearer  far 
Than  all  my  joys  on  earth  ;  by  this  chaste  kiss. 

Fe%  You  have  prevailed  :  and  heaven  forbid  that  I 
Should  by  a  wanton  appetite  profane 
This  sacred  temple.     'Tis  enough  for  me, 
You'll  please  to  call  me  servant. 

Bian.  Nay,  be  thine  : 
Command  my  power,  my  bosom,  and  I'll  write 
This  love  within  the  tables  of  my  heart. 

Fer.  Enough  :  I'll  master  passion,  and  triumph 
In  being  conquer'd,  adding  to  it  this, 
J  a  you  my  love  as  it  begun  shall  end. 

Bian.   The  latter  I  new  vow but  day  comes  on  : 

What  now  we  leave  unfinished  of  content, 
Each  hour  shall  perfect  up.     Sweet,  let  us  part. 

Fer.  Best  Life,  good  rest. 


PERK  IN  WARHECK. 


THE  CHRONICLE  HISTORY  OF  PERKIN  WARBECK. 
BY  JOHN  FORD. 

Perkin  Warbeck  and  his  Followers  are  by  Lord  Dawbney  presented  to 
Sing  Henry  us  Prisoners. 

Dawh.  Life  to  the  King,  and  safety  fix  his  throne. 
I  here  present  you,  royal  Sir,  a  shadow 
Of  majesty,  but  in  effect  a  substance 
Of  pity  ;  a  young  man,  in  nothing  grown 
To  ripeness,  but  th'  ambition  of  your  mercy  : 
Perkin  ;  the  christian  world's  strange  wonder  ! 

King  H.  Dawbney, 
We  observe  no  wonder  ;  I  behold  ('tis  true) 
An  ornament  of  nature,  fine,  and  polisht, 
A  handsome  youth  indeed,  but  not  admire  him. 
How  came  he  to  thy  hands  ? 

Datcb.  From  sanctuary 
At  Bewley,  near  Southampton  ;   registrecf, 
With  these  few  followers,  for  persons  privileged. 

King  H.  I  must  not  thank  you,  Sir ;  you  were  to  blame 
To  infringe  the  liberty  of  houses  sacred  : 
Dare  we  be  irreligious  ? 

Dawb.  Gracious  Lord, 
They  voluntarily  resign'd  themselves, 
Without  compulsion. 

King  H.  So  1   'twas  very  well  ; 
'Twas  very  well.     Turn  now  thine  eyes, 
Young  man,  upon  thyself  and  thy  past  actions. 
What  revels  in  combustion  through  our  kingdom 
A  frenzy  of  aspiring  youth  hath  danced  : 
Till  wanting  breath,  thy  feet  of  pride  have  slipt 
To  break  thy  neck. 

Warb.   But  not  my  heart  :  my  heart 
Will  mount,  till  every  drop  of  blood  be  frozen 
By  death's  perpetual  winter.      If  the  sun 
Of  majesty  be  darkned,  let  the  sun 
Of  life  be  hid  from  me,  in  an  eclipse 
Lasting,  and  universal.     Sir;   remember, 


KMJLISI1   UKAMATIC  POETS. 


There  was  a  shooting  in  of  light,  when  Richmond 
(Not  aiming  at  the  crown)  retired,  and  gladly, 
For  comfort  to  the  Duke  of  Bretagne's  Court. 
Richard,  who  sway'd  the  sceptre,  was  reputed 
A  tyrant  then  ;  yet  then,  a  dawning  glimmer'd 
To  some  few  wand'ring  remnants,  promising  day, 
When  lirst  thej  ventur'don  a  frightful  shore, 
\i   Milford  Haven. 

Dawb.  Whither  speeds  his  boldness  ? 
Check  his  rude  tongue,  great  Sir. 

King  H.  O  let  him  range  : 
The  player  ;s  on  the  stage  still ;   'tis  his  part : 
He  does  but  act. What  follow'd  ? 

Warb.  Bosworth  field  : 
V\'h< .■]■■•  at  an  instant,  to  the  world's  amazement, 
A  morn  to  Richmond  and  a  night  to  Richard 
Appear'd  at  once.     The  tale  is  soon  applied  : 
Fate  which  crown'd  these  attempts,  when  least  assured, 
Might  have  befriended  others,  like  resolved. 

King  H.  A  pretty  gallant !  thus  your  Aunt  of  Burgundy, 
Your  Duchess  Aunt,  inform'd  her  nephew  •  so 
The  lesson  prompted,  and  well  conn'd,  was  moulded 
Into  familiar  dialogue,  oft  rehears'd, 
Till,  learnt  by  heart,  'tis  now  received  for  truth. 

Warb.  Truth  in  her  pure  simplicity  wants  art 
To  put  a  feigned  blush  on  ;  scorn  wears  only 
Such  fashion,  as  commends  to  gazers'  eyes 
Sad  ulcerated  novelty,  far  beneath 
The  sphere  of  majesty :  in  such  a  court 
Wisdom  and  gravity  are  proper  robes, 
By  which  the  sovereign  is  best  distinguish 'd 
From  zanies  to  his  greatness. 

King  H.   Sirrah,  shift 
Your  antick  pageantry,  and  now  appear 
In  your  own  nature  ;  or  you  '11  taste  the  danger 
Of  fooling  out  of  season. 

Warb.  I  expect 
No  less  than  what  severity  calls  justice, 


PERKIN  WARBECK. 


And  politicians  safety  ;  let  such  beg, 

As  feed  on  alms  :  but  if  there  can  be  mercy 

In  a  protested  enemy,  then  may  it 

Descend  to  these  poor  creatures,*  whose  engagements 

To  the  bettering  of  their  fortunes,  have  incurr'd 

A  loss  of  all  :  to  them  if  any  charity 

Flow  from  some  noble  orator,  in  death 

I  owe  the  fee  of  thankfulness. 

King  H.  So  brave  ? 
"What  a  bold  knave  is  this  ! 
We  trifle  time  with  follies. 

Urswick,  command  the  Dukeling,  and  these  fellows, 
To  Digb.y,  the  Lieutenant  of  the  Tower  : 
With  safety  let  them  be  convey'd  to  London. 
li  is  our  pleasure,  no  uncivil  outrage, 
Taunts,  or  abuse,  be  suffer'd  to  their  persons  : 
They  shall  meet  fairer  law  than  they  deserve. 
Time  may  restore  their  wits,  whom  vain  ambition 
Hath  many  years  distracted. 

Warb.   Noble  thoughts 
Meet  freedom  in  captivity.     The  Tower  : 
Our  childhood's  dreadful  nursery  ! 

King  H.  Was  ever  so  much  impudence  in  forgery  ? 
The  custom  sure  of  being  styl'd  a  King, 
Hath  fast'ned  in  his  thoughts  that  he  is  such. 

Wnrbcck  is  led  to  his  Death. 

Oxford.  Look  ye,  behold  your  followers,  appointed 
To  wait  on  ye  in  death. 

Warb.  Why,  Peers  of  England, 
We  '11  lead  'em  on  courageously.     I  read 
A  triumph  over  tyranny  upon 

Their  several  foreheads.     Faint  not  in  the  moment 
Of  victory  !  our  ends,  and  Warwick's  head, 
Innocent  Warwick's  head  (for  we  are  prologue 
But  to  his  tragedy),  conclude  the  wonder 
Of  Henry's  fears  :  and  then  the  glorious  race 

'  His  Followers 


10  ENGLISH  DRAMATIC  POETS. 


Of  fourteen  kings  Plantagenets,  determines 

In  this  last  issue  male.      Heaven  be  obey'd. 

Impoverish  time  of  its  amazement,  friends  : 

And  we  will  prove  as  trusty  in  our  payments, 

As  prodigal  to  nature  in  our  debts. 

Death  !  pish,  'tis  but  a  sound  ;  a  name  of  air  ; 

A  minute's  storm  ;  or  not  so  much  ;  to  tumble 

From  bed  to  bed,  be  massacred  alive 

By  some  physicians  for  a  month  or  two, 

In  hope  of  freedom  from  a  fever's  torments, 

Might  stagger  manhood  ;  here,  the  pain  is  past 

Ere  sensibly  'tis  felt.     Be  men  of  spirit ; 

Spurn  coward  passion  :  so  illustrious  mention 

Shall  blaze  our  names,  and  style  us  Kings  o'er  Death. 


'TIS  PITY  SHE'S  A  WHORE:  A  TRAGEDY,  BY  JOHN  FORD. 

Giovanni,  a  Young  Gentleman  of  Parma,  entertains  an  illicit  love  for 
his  Sister.     He  asks  counsel  of  Bonaventura,  a  Friar  * 

Friar.     Giovanni. 

Friar.  Dispute  no  more  in  this,  for  know,  young  man, 
These  are  no  school-points  ;  nice  philosophy 
May  tolerate  unlikely  arguments, 
But  heaven  admits  no  jests  !  wits  that  presumed 
On  wit  too  much,  by  striving  how  to  prove 
There  was  no  God,  with  foolish  grounds  of  art, 
Discover'd  first  the  nearest  way  to  hell  ; 
And  fill'd  the  world  with  devilish  atheism. 
Such  questions,  youth,  are  fond  ;   far  better  'tis 
To  bless  the  sun,  than  reason  why  it  shines  ; 
Yet  he  thou  talk's!  of  is  above  the  sun. 
No  more  ;  I  may  not  hear  it. 

Gio.  Gentle  father, 

*  The  good  Friar  in  this  Play  is  evidently  a  Copy  of  Friar  Lav,»^nce  in 
Romeo  and  Juliet.  He  is  the  same  kind  Physician  to  the  Souls  of  his  young 
Charges ;  but  he  has  more  desperate  Patients  to  deal  with. 


'TIS  PITY  SHE'S   A   WHORE.  21 

To  you  have  I  unclasp'd  my  burthen'd  soul, 
Emptied  the  store-house  of  my  thoughts  and  heart, 
Made  myself  poor  of  secrets;   have  notlefl 
Another  word  untold,  which  hath  not  spoke 
All  what  I  ever  durst,  or  think,  or  know; 
And  yet  is  here  the  comfort  I  shall  have  ? 
Must  I  not  do  what  all  men  else  may,  love  ? 

Friar.   Yes,  you  may  love,  fair  son. 

Gio.  .Must  I  not  praise 
That  beauty  which,  if  framed  anew,  the  Gods 
Would  make  a  God  of,  if  they  had  it  there ; 
Ami  kneel  to  it,  as  I  do  kneel  to  them  ? 

Friar.  Why,  foolish  madman  ! 

Gio.  Shall  a  peevish  sound, 
A  customary  form,  from  man  to  man, 
Of  brother  and  of  sister,  be  a  bar 
'Twixt  my  perpetual  happiness  and  me  ? 

Friar.   Have  done,  unhappy  youth,  for  thou  art  lost. 

Gio.  No,  father :  in  your  eyes  I  see  the  change 
Of  pity  and  compassion  :  from  your  age, 
As  from  a  sacred  oracle,  distils 
The  life  of  counsel.     Tell  me,  holy  man, 
What  euro  shall  give  me  ease  in  these  extremes? 

Friar.  Repentance,  son,  and  sorrow  for  this  sin  : 
For  thou  hast  moved  a  majesty  above 
With  thy  unguarded  almost  blasphemy. 

Gio.  O  do  not  speak  of  that,  dear  confessor. 

Friar.  Art  thou,  my  son,  that  miracle  of  wit, 
Who  once  within  these  three  months  wert  esteem'd 
A  wonder  of  thine  age  throughout  Bononia  ? 
How  did  the  university  applaud 
Thy  government,  behavior,  learning,  speech, 
Sweetness,  and  all  that  could  make  up  a  man  ! 
I  was  proud  of  my  tutelage,  and  chose 
Rather  to  leave  my  books  than  part  with  thee. 
I  did  so  ;   but  the  fruits  of  all  my  hopes 
Are  lost  in  thee,  as  thou  art  in  thy 
O  Giovanni,  hast  thou  left  the  schools 


ENGLISH   I"  POETS. 


Of  knowledge,  to  converse  with  lust  and  death  ? 

For  death  waits  on  tiiy  lust. Look  through  the  world, 

And  thou  shalt  sec  a  thousand  faces  shine 

More  glorious  than  this  idol  thou  adorest. 

Leave  her  and  take  thy  choice  ;   'tis  much  less  sin  : 

Though  in  such  games  as  those  they  lose  that  win. 

Gio.  It  were  more  ease  to  stop  the  ocean 
From  flows  and  ebhs,  than  to  dissuade  my  vows. 

Friar.  Then  I  have  done,  and  in  thy  wilful  flames 
Already  see  thy  ruin  !  heaven  is  just. 
Yet  hear  my  counsel  ! 

Gio.  As  a  voice  of  life. 

Friar.  Hie  to  thy  father's  house,  there  lock  thee  fast 
Alone  within  thy  chamber,  then  fall  down 
On  both  thy  knees,  and  grovel  on  the  ground  ; 
Cry  to  thy  heart,  wash  every  word  thou  utter'st 
In  tears,  and  (if  't  be  possible)  of  blood  : 
Beg  heaven  to  cleanse  the  leprosy  of  lust 
That  rots  thy  soul ;  acknowledge  what  thou  art, 
A  wretch,  a  worm,  a  nothing :  weep,  sigh,  pray 
Three  times  a  day,  and  three  times  every  night ; 
For  seven  days'  space  do.  this,  then,  if  thou  find'st 
No  change  in  thy  desires,  return  to  me  ; 
I  "11  think  on  remedy.     Pray  for  thyself 

At  home,  whilst  I  pray  for  thee  here ;  away. 

My  blessing  with  thee we  have  need  to  pray. 

Giovanni  discloses  his  Passion  to  his  Sister  Annabel  la. —  They  compare 

their  unhappy  Loves. 

Anna.  Do  you  mock  me,  or  flatter  me  ? 

[He  has  been  praising  her  beauty. 

Gio.  If  you  would  see  a  beauty  more  exact 
Than  art  can  counterfeit,  or  nature  frame, 
Look  in  your  glass  and  there  behold  your  own. 

Anna.  O  you  are  a  trim  youth. 

Gio.   Here.  [Offers  his  dagger  to  her. 

Anna.  What  to  do  ? 

Gio.   And  here  's  my  In-east.     Strike  home, 
Rip  up  my  bosom  ;  tin  re  thou  shalt  behold 


PITY  \    WHORE.  H 


A  heart,  in  which  is  writ  the  truth  I  speak. 
Why  stand  you  ? 

Anna.  Are  you  in  earnest  ? 

Gio.  Yes,  most  earnest. 
You  cannot  love. 

Anna.  Whom  1 

Gio.  Me. My  tortur'd  soul 

Hath  felt  affliction  in  the  heat  of  death. 

0  Annabella,  I  am  quite  undone. 

The  love  of  thee,  my  sister,  and  the  view 
Of  thy  immortal  beauty,  have  untuned 
All  harmony  both  of  my  rest  and  life. 
Why  do  you  not  strike  ? 

Anna.  Forbid  it,  my  just  fears. 
If  this  be  true  'twere  fitter  I  were  dead. 

Gio.  True,  Annabella  !  'tis  no  time  to  jest ; 

1  have  too  long  suppress'd  my  hidden  flames, 
That  almost  have  consum'd  me  :  I  have  spent 
Many  a  silent  night  in  sighs  and  groans, 
Ran  over  all  my  thoughts,  despis'd  my  fate, 
Reason'd  against  the  reasons  of  my  love, 

Done  all  that  smooth-cheek'd  virtue  could  advise. 
But  found  all  bootless  :  'tis  my  destiny 
That  you  must  either  love,  or  I  must  die. 

Anna.  Comes  this  in  sadness  from  you  ? 

Gio.  Let  some  mischief 
Befall  me  soon,  if  I  dissemble  aught. 

Anna.  You  are  my  brother,  Giovanni. 

Gio.  You 
My  sister,  Annabella,  I  know  this : 
And  could  afford  you  instance  why  to  love 
So  much  the  more  for  this. — 

He  gives  some  sophistical  Reasons  and  resumes 

Must  I  now  live  or  die  ? 

Anna.  Live  :  thou  hast  won 
The  field,  and  never  fought.     What  thou  hast  urg'd, 
.My  captive  heart  had  long  ago  resolv'd. 


14 


[.I'll    DR  \M.\TIC  POETS. 


I  blush  to  tell  thee  (but  1  tell  thee  now) 
For  every  sigh  thai  thou  hasl  spent  for  me, 
I  have  sigh'd  ten  :   for  ev<  ry  t  ar  *\\>'t\  twenty: 
And  nol  so  much  for  thai  I  lov'd,  as  that 
I  durst  not  say  1  lov'd.  nor  scarcely  think  it. 

Gio.  Let  nol  this  music  be  a  dream,  ye  gods, 
For  pity's  sake  I  beg 

Ann  <.  '•  >n  m\  kne<  s,  [She  kneels. 

Brother.  ev(  n  by  our  mother's  dust,  I  charge  you, 
Do  not  betray  me  to  your  mirth  or  hate  ; 
Love  me,  or  kill  me,  brother. 

Gio.  On  my  knee  .  [He  kneels. 

Sister,  even  by  my  mother's  dust,  I  charge  you, 
Do  not  betray  me  to  your  mirth  or  hate; 
Love  me,  or  kill  me,  sister. 

Anne.  You  mean  good  sooth,  then  ? 

Gio.   In  good  truth  I  do  ; 
And  so  do  you.  I  hope:  say,  I'm  in  earnest. 

Anna.  I'll  swear  it  ;  and  I. 

Gio.  And  I. 
I  would  not  change  this  minute  for  Elysium. 

Annabcl/a  proven  pregnant  by  her  Brother.  Sorano,  her  Husband,  to 
whom  she  is  newly  married,  discovers  that  she  is  pregnant,  but  cannot 
make  her  confess  by  whom.  At  length  by  means  of  Vasques,  his  ser- 
vant, he  comes  to  the  truth  of  it.  He  feigns  forgiveness  and  reconcile 
men'  with  his  Wife:  and  makes  a  sumptuous  Feast  to  which  are  in- 
vited A nnabella's  old  Father,  with  Giovanni,  and  all  the  chief  Citizens 
in  Parma;  meaning  to  entrap  Giovanni  by  that  bait  to  his  death.- 
Annabella  suspects  his  drift. 


Giovanni.     Annabella. 

Gio.   What,  chang'd  so  soon  ? 

does  the  fit  come  on  you,  to  prove  treacherous 

To  your  past  vows  and  oaths  ? 

Anna.   Why  should  you  jest 
At  my  calamity,  without  all  sense 
Of  the  approaching  dangers  you  are  in  ? 

Gio.   What  danger's  half  so  great  as  thy  revolt  ? 


'TIS  PITY  SHE'S  A  WHORE.  15 

Thou  art  a  faithless  sister,  else  thou  know'st, 
Malice  or  any  treachery  beside 
Would  stoop  to  my  bent  brows :  why,  I  hold  fate 
Clasp'd  in  my  fist,  and  could  command  the  course 
Of  time's  eternal  motion,  had'st  thou  been 
One  thought  more  steady  than  an  ebbing  sea. 

Anna.  Brother,  dear  brother,  know  what  I  have  been; 
And  know  that  now  there's  but  a  dining  time 
'Twixt  us  and  our  confusion  :  let's  not  waste 
These  precious  hours  in  vain  and  useless  speech. 
Alas,  these  gay  attires  were  not  put  on 
But  to  some  end  ;  this  sudden  solemn  feast 
Was  not  ordain'd  to  riot  and  expense ; 
1  that  have  now  been  chamber'd  here  alone, 
Barr'd  of  my  guardian,  or  of  any  else, 
Am  not  for  nothing  at  an  instant  freed 
To  fresh  access.     Be  not  deceiv'd,  my  brother ; 
This  banquet  is  a  harbinger  of  death 
To  you  and  me ;  resolve  yourself  it  is, 
And  be  prepar'd  to  welcome  it. 

Gio.  Well  then, 
The  schoolmen  teach  that  all  this  globe  of  earth 
Shall  be  consumed  to  ashes  in  a  minute. 

Anna.  So  I  have  read  too. 

Gio.  But  'twere  somewhat  strange 
To  see  the  waters  burn.     Could  I  believe 
This  might  be  true,  I  could  believe  as  well 
There  might  be  hell  or  heaven. 

Anna.  That's  most  certain. But 

Good  brother,  for  the  present,  how  do  you  mean 
To  free  yourself  from  danger  ?  some  way  think 
How  to  escape.     I'm  sure  the  guests  are  come. 

Gio.  Look  up,  look  here  :  what  see  you  in  my  face  ? 

Anna.  Distraction  and  a  troubled  conscience. 

Gio.  Death  and  a  swift  repining  wrath yet  look, 

What  see  you  in  mine  eyes  ? 

Anna.  Methinks  you  weep. 

Gio.  I  do  indeed  :  these  are  the  funeral  tears 


16  ENGLISH  DRAMATIC  POETS. 


Shed  on  your  grave :  these  furrow'd  up  my  cheeks, 

When  first  I  lov'd  and  knew  not  how  to  woo. 

Fair  Annabella,  should  I  here  repeat 

The  story  of  my  life,  we  might  lose  time. 

Be  record  all  the  spirits  of  the  air, 

And  all  things  else  that  are,  that  day  and  night, 

Early  and  late,  the  tribute  which  my  heart 

Hath  paid  to  Annabella's  sacred  love, 

Hath  been  these  tears  which  are  her  mourners  now. 

Never  till  now  did  Nature  do  her  best, 

To  show  a  matchless  beauty  to  the  world, 

Which  in  an  instant,  ere  it  scarce  was  seen, 

The  jealous  destinies  requir'd  again. 

Pray,  Annabella,  pray ;  since  we  must  part, 

Go  thou,  white  in  thy  soul,  to  fill  a  throne 

Of  innocence  and  sanctity  in  heaven. 

Pray,  pray,  my  sister. 

Anna.  Then  I  see  your  drift. 
Ye  blessed  angels,  guard  me  ! 

Gio.  Give  me  your  hand.     How  sweetly  life  doth  run 
In  these  well-color'd  veins  !  how  constantly 
This  pulse  doth  promise  health !     But  I  could  chide 
With  Nature  for  this  cunning  flattery  ! 
Forgive  me. 

Anna.   With  my  heart. 

Gio.  Farewell. 

Anna.   Will  you  be  gone  ? 

Gio.  Be  dark,  bright  sun, 
And  make  this  mid-day  night,  that  thy  gilt  rays 
May  not  behold  a  deed,  will  turn  their  splendor 
More  sooty  than  the  poets  feign  their  Styx. 

Anna.  What  means  this  1  \ Stabs  her. 

Gio.  To  save  thy  fame. 

Thus  die,  and  die  by  me,  and  by  my  hand  ; 
Revenge  is  mine,  honor  doth  love  command. 

Anna.  Forgive  him,  heaven,  and  me  my  sins.     Farewell. 
Brother  unkind,  unkind •  [Dies. 


THE  BROKEN   HEART.  17 

[Sir  Thomas  Browne,  in  the  last  Chapter  of  his  Enquiries  into  \ 

and  Common  Errors,  rebukes  such  Authors  as  have  chosen  to  relate  pro- 
digious and  nameless  Sins.  The  Chapter  is  entitled,  Of  some  Relations 
whose  Truth  we  fear.  His  reasoning  is  solemn  and  fine. — "  Lastly,  as 
there  are  many  Relations  whereto  we  cannot  assent,  and  make  some  doubt 
thereof,  so  there  are  divers  others  whose  verities  we  fear,  and  heartily 
wish  there  were  no  truth  therein.  Many  other  accounts  like  these  we 
meet  sometimes  in  History,  scandalous  unto  Christianity,  and  even  unto 
humanity;  whose  not  only  verities  but  relations  honest  minds  do  deprecate. 
For  of  sins  heteroclital,  and  such  as  want  either  name  or  precedent,  there 
is  oft-times  a  sin  even  in  their  histories.  We  desire  no  records  of  such 
enormities;  sins  should  be  accounted  new,  that  so  they  may  be  esteemed 
monstrous.  They  omit  of  monstrosity,  as  they  fall  from  their  rarity ;  for 
men  count  it  venial  to  err  with  their  forefathers,  and  foolishly  conceive 
they  divide  a  sin  in  its  society.  The  pens  of  men  may  sufficiently  expatiate 
without  these  singularities  of  villainy  :  for,  as  they  increase  the  hatred  of 
vice  in  some,  so  do  they  enlarge  the  theory  of  wickedness  in  all.  And  this 
is  one  thing  that  may  make  latter  ages  worse  than  were  the  former  :  for  the 
vicious  example  of  ages  past,  poison  the  curiosity  of  these  present,  afl'ord- 
ing  a  hint  of  sin  unto  seduceable  spirits,  and*  soliciting  those  unto  the 
imitation  of  them,  whose  heads  were  never  so  perversely  principled  as  to 
invent  them.  In  things  of  this  nature  silence  commendeth  History;  'tis 
the  \eniable  part  of  things  lost,  wherein  there  must  never  rise  a  Pancirol- 
lus*  nor  remain  any  register  but  that  of  Hell."] 


THE  BROKEN  HEART.     A  TRAGEDY.     BY  JOHN  FORD. 

Ithocles  loves  Calantha,  Princess  of  Sparta  ;  and  would  have  his  sister 
Penthea  plead  for  him  with  the  Princess.  She  objects  to  him  her  own 
wretched  condition,  made  miserable  by  a  Match,  into  which  he  forced 
her  with  Bassanes,  ichen  she  teas  precontracted  by  her  dead  Father's 
Will,  and  by  inclination,  to  Orgilus  ;  but  at  last  she  consents. 

Ithocles.     Penthea. 
Ith.  Sit  nearer,  sister,  to  me,  nearer  yet ; 
We  had  one  father,  in  one  womb  took  life, 
Were  brought  up  twins  together,  yet  have  liv'd 
At  distance  like  two  strangers.     I  could  wish, 
That  the  first  pillow  whereon  I  was  cradled 
Had  proved  to  me  a  grave. 

Who   wrote    De   Antiquis    Deperditis,    or    the    Lost   Inventions   of 
Antiquity. 

PART  II.  3 


18  ENGLISH   DRAMATIC  POETS 

Pen.  You  had  been  happy  : 
Then  had  you  never  known  that  sin  of  life 
Which  blots  all  following  glories  with  a  vengeance  ; 
For  forfeiting  the  last  will  of  the  dead, 
From  whom  you  had  your  being. 

Ith.  Sad  Penthea, 
Thou  canst  not  be  too  cruel  ;  my  rash  spleen 
Hath  with  a  violent  hand  pluck'd  from  thy  bosom 
A  lover-blest  heart,  to  grind  it  into  dust  ; 
For  which  mine's  now  a  breaking. 

Pen.  Not  yet,  heaven, 
I  do  beseech  thee :  first  let  some  wild  fires 
Scorch,  not  consume  it ;  may  the  heat  be  cherish 'd 
With  desires  infinite  but  hopes  impossible. 

Ith.  Wrong'd  soul,  thy  prayers  are  heard. 

Pen.   Here,  lo.  I  breathe, 
A  miserable  creature,  led  to  ruin 
By  an  unnatural  brother. 

Ith.  I  consume 
In  languishing  affections  for  that  trespass, 
Yet  cannot  die. 

Pen.  The  handmaid  to  the  wages, 
The  untroubled*  of  country  toil,  drinks  streams, 
With  leaping  kids,  and  with  the  bleating  lambs, 
And  so  allays  her  thirst  secure  ;  while  I 
Quench  my  hot  sighs  with  fleetings  of  my  tears. 

Ith.  The  laborer  doth  eat  his  coarsest  bread, 
Earn'd  with  his  sweat,  and  lies  him  down  to  sleep ; 
While  every  bit  I  touch  turns  in  digestion 
To  gall,  as  bitter  as  Penthea's  curse. 
Put  me  to  any  penance  for  my  tyranny, 
And  I  will  call  thee  merciful. 

Pen.  Pray  kill  me  ; 
Rid  me  from  living  with  a  jealous  husband  ; 
Then  we  will  join  in  friendship,  be  again 
Brother  and  sister 

*  A  word  seems  defective  here. 


THE  BROXE  J   HEART. 


Ith.   After  my  victories  abroad,  at  home 
[  meet  despair  ;   ingratitude  of  nature 
Hath  made  my  actions  monstrous  :  Thou  shalt  stand 
A  deity,  my  sister,  and  be  worsbipp'd 
For  thy  resolved  martyrdom  ;   wrong'd  maids 
And  married  wives  shall  to  thy  hallow'd  shrine 
Offer  their  orisons,  and  sacrifice 
Pure  turtles  crown'd  with  mirtle,  if  thy  pity 
Unto  a  yielding  brother's  pressure  lend 
One  finger  but  to  case  it. 

Pen.  O  no  more. 

Ith.  Death  waits  to  waft  me  to  the  Stygian  banks, 
And  free  me  from  this  cbaos  of  my  bondage  ; 
And  till  thou  wilt  forgive,  I  must  endure. 

Pen.   Who  is  the  saint  you  serve  ? 

Ith.  Friendship,  or  nearness 
Of  birth,  to  any  but  my  sister,  durst  not 
Have  mov'd  that  question  :  as  a  secret,  sister, 
I  dare  not  murmur  to  myself. 

Pen.  Let  me, 
By  your  new  protestations  I  conjure  ye, 
Partake  her  name. 

Ith.  Her  name 'tis 'tis — I  dare  not — 

Pen.  All  your  respects  are  forg'd. 

Ith.  They  are  not — Peace. — 
Calantha  is  the  princess,  the  king's  daughter, 
Sole  heir  of  Sparta.     Me  most  miserable 
Do  I  now  love  thee  ?     For  my  injuries, 
Revenge  thyself  with  bravery,  and  gossip 
My  treasons  to  the  king's  ears.     Do  ;  Calantha 
Knows  it  not  yet,  nor  Prophilus  my  nearest. 

Pen.  Suppose  you  were  contracted  to  her,  would  it  not 
Split  even  your  very  soul  to  see  her  father 
Snatch  her  out  of  your  arms  against  her  will, 
And  force  her  on  the  Prince  of  Argos  ? 

Ith.   Trouble  not 
The  fountains  of  mine  eyes  with  thine  own  story  : 
I  sweat  in  blood  for  't. 


20  DR  \. MA  TIC  POETS. 


Pen.   We  are  reconciled. 
Alas,  Sir,  being  children,  but  two  branches 
Of  one  stock,  'tis  not  fit  we  should  divide. 
Have  comfort,  you  may  find  it. 

Ith.  Yes,  in  thee, 
Only  in  thee,  Penthea  mine. 

Pen.  If  sorrows 
Have  not  too  much  dull'd  my  infected  brain, 
I'll  cheer  invention  for  an  active  strain. 

Penthea  recommends  her  Brother  as  a  dying  bequest  to  the  Princess. 

Calantha.     Penthea. 

Cal.  Being  alone,  Penthea,  you  have  granted 
The  opportunity  you  sought,  and  might 
At  all  times  have  commanded. 

Pen.  'Tis  a  benefit 
Which  I  shall  owe  your  goodness  even  in  death  lor. 
My  glass  of  life,  sweet  princess,  hath  few  minutes 
Remaining  to  run  down ;  the  sands  are  spent ; 
For  by  an  inward  messenger  I  feel 
The  summons  of  departure  short  and  certain. 

Cal.  You  feed  too  much  your  melancholy. 

Pen.  Glories 
Of  human  greatness  are  but  pleasing  dreams 
And  shadows  soon  decaying :  on  the  stage 
Of  my  mortality  my  youth  hath  acted 
Some  scenes  of  vanity,  drawn  out  at  length  ; 
By  varied  pleasures  sweetened  in  the  mixture, 
But  tragical  in  issue. 

Cal.  Contemn  not  your  condition,  for  the  proof 
Of  bare  opinion  only  :  to  what  end 
Reach  all  these  moral  texts  ? 

Pen.  To  place  before  ye 
A  perfect  mirror,  wherein  you  may  see 
How  weary  I  am  of  a  lingering  life, 
Who  count  the  best  a  misery. 

Cal.  Indeed 


THE  BROKEN  HEART.  21 


You  have  no  little  cause  ;  yet  none  so  great, 
As  to  distrust  a  remedy. 

Pen.  That  remedy 
Must  be  a  winding  sheet,  a  fold  of  lead, 
And  some  untrod  on  corner  in  the  earth. 
Not  to  detain  your  expectation,  Princess  ; 
I  have  an  humble  suit. 

Cal.  Speak,  and  enjoy  it. 

Pen.  Vouchsafe  then  to  be  my  Executrix  ; 
And  take  that  trouble  on  ye,  to  dispose 
Such  legacies  as  I  bequeath  impartially  : 
I  have  not  much  to  give,  the  pains  are  easy  ; 
Heaven  will  reward  your  piety  and  thank  it, 
AY  hen  I  am  dead  ;  for  sure  I  must  not  live  ; 
I  hope  I  cannot. 

Cal.  Now  beshrew  thy  sadness  ; 
Thou  turnst  me  too  much  woman. 

Pen.  Her  fair  eyes 
Melt  into  passion  :  then  I  have  assurance 
Encouraging  my  boldness.     In  this  paper 
My  will  was  character'd  ;  which  you,  with  pardon, 
Shall  now  know  from  mine  own  mouth. 

Cal.  Talk  on,  prithee  ; 
It  is  a  pretty  earnest. 

Pen.  I  have  left  me 
But  three  poor  jewels  to  bequeath.     The  first  is 
My  youth  ;  for  though  I  am  much  old  in  griefs, 
In  years  I  am  a  child. 

Cal.  To  whom  that  ? 

Pen.  To  virgin  wives  ;  such  as  abuse  not  wedlock 
By  freedom  of  desires,  but  covet  chiefly 
The  pledges  of  chaste  beds,  for  ties  of  love 
Rather  than  ranging  of  their  blood  :  and  next, 
To  married  maids  :   such  as  prefer  the  number 
Of  honorable  issue  in  their  virtiK 
Before  the  flattery  of  delights  by  marriage  ; 
May  those  be  ever  young. 

Cal.   A  second  jewel 


22  ENGLISH  DR  A.MATiC  POETS. 


You  mean  to  part  with  ! 

Pen.  'Tis  my  fame  ;  1  trust, 
By  scandal  yet  untouch'd  :  this  I  bequeath 
To  Memory  and  Time's  old  daughter,  Truth. 
If  ever  my  unhappy  name  find  mention, 
When  I  am  fall'n  to  dust,  may  it  deserve 
Beseeming  charity  without  dishonor. 

Cal.  How  handsomely  thou  play'st  with  harmless  sport 
Of  mere  imagination  !  Speak  the  last. 
I  strangely  like  thy  will. 

Pen.  This  jewel,  Madam, 
Is  dearly  precious  to  me ;  you  must  use 
The  best  of  your  discretion,  to  employ 
This  gift  as  I  intend  it. 

Cal.  Do  not  doubt  me. 

Pen.  'Tis  long  ago,  since  first  I  lost  my  heart ; 
Long  I  have  liv'd  without  it :  but  in  stead 
Of  it,  to  great  Calantha,  Sparta's  heir, 
By  service  bound,  and  by  affection  vow'd, 
I  do  bequeath  in  holiest  rites  of  love 
Mine  only  brother  Ithocles. 

Cal.  What  saidst  thou  ? 

Pen.  Impute  not,  heav'n-blest  lady,  to  ambition, 
A  faith  as  humbly  perfect  as  the  prayers 
Of  a  devoted  suppliant  can  endow  it : 
Look  on  him,  Princess,  with  an  eye  of  pity ; 
How  like  the  ghost  of  what  he  late  appear'd 
He  moves  before  you. 

Cal.  Shall  I  answer  here, 
Or  lend  my  ear  too  grossly  ? 

Pen.  First  his  heart 
Shall  fall  in  cinders,  scorch'd  by  your  disdain, 
Ere  he  will  dare,  poor  man,  to  ope  an  eye 
On  these  divine  looks,  but  with  low-bent  thoughts 
Accusing  such  presumption  :  as  for  words, 
He  dares  not  utter  any  but  of  service  ; 
Yet  this  lost  creature  loves  you.     Be  a  Princess 
In  sweetness  as  in  blood  ;  give  him  his  doom, 


THE  BROKEN  HEART.  2-3 


Or  raise  him  up  to  comfort. 

CjlI.  What  new  change 
Appears  in  my  behavior,  that  thou  darest 
Tempt  my  displeasure  ? 

Pen.  I  must  leave  the  world, 
To  revel  in  Elysium  ;  and  'tis  just 
To  wish  my  brother  some  advantage  here. 
Yet  by  my  best  hopes,  Ithocles  is  ignorant 
Of  this  pursuit.     But,  if  you  please  to  kill  him, 
Lend  him  one  angry  look,  or  one  harsh  word, 
And  you  shall  soon  conclude  how  strong  a  power 
Your  absolute  authority  holds  over 
His  life  and  end. 

Cal.  You  have  forgot,  Penthea, 
How  still  I  have  a  father. 

Pen.  But  remember 
I  am  sister  :  though  to  me  this  brother 
Hath  been,  you  know,  unkind,  O  most  unkind. 

Cal.  Christalla,  Philema,  where  are  ye  ? — Lady, 
Your  check  lies  in  my  silence.* 

While  Calantha  (Princess  of  Sparta)  is  celebrating  the  Nuptials  of  Pro- 
philus  and  Euphranea  at  Court  with  Music  and  Dancing,  one  enters 
to  inform  her  that  the  King  her  Father  is  dead  ;  a  second  brings  the 
JVews  that  Penthea  (Sister  to  Ithocles)  is  starved;  and  a  third  comes 
to  tell  that  Ithocles  himself  (to  whom  the  Princess  is  contracted)  is 
cruelly  murdered. 

Calantha.     Pkophiltts.    Euphranea.    Nearchus.    Crotolon. 
Christalla.    Philema,  and  others. 

Cal.  We  miss  our  servant  Ithocles,  and  Orgilus ; 
On  whom  attend  they  ? 

Crot.  My  son,  gracious  princess, 
Whisper'd  some  new  device,  to  which  these  revels 
Should  be  but  usher :  wherein,  I  conceive, 
Lord  Ithocles  and  he  himself  are  actors. 

*  It  is  necessary  to  the  understanding  of  the  Scene  which  follows,  to 
know  that  the  Princess  is  won  by  these  solicitations  of  Penthea,  and  by  the 
real  deserts  of  Ithocles,  to  requite  his  love,  and  that  they  are  contracted 
with  the  consent  of  the  Kinir  her  Father. 


24  ENGLISH  DRAMATIC  POETS. 


Cal.  A  fair  excuse  for  absence  :  as  for  Bassanes, 
Delights  to  him  are  troublesome  ;  Armostes 
Is  with  the  King. 

Crot.  He  is. 

Cal.  On  to  the  dance  : 
(To  Nearchus.)     Dear  cousin,  hand  you  the  bride;  the  bride- 
groom must  be 
Intrusted  to  my  courtship  :  be  not  jealous, 
Euphranea  ;  I  shall  scarcely  prove  a  temptress. 
Fall  to  our  dance. 

They  dance  the  first  Change,  during  which  Armostes  enters. 

Arm.  The  King  your  Father  's  dead. 
Cal.  To  the  other  change. 
Arm.  Is  it  possible  ? 

They  dance  again  :    Bassanes  enters. 

Bass.  O  Madam. 
Penthea,  poor  Penthea  's  starv'd. 

Cal.  Be  shrew  thee. 

Lead  to  the  next. 

Bass.  Amazement  dulls  my  senses. 

They  dance  again  :  Orgilus  enters. 

Org.  Brave  Ithocles  is  murder'd,  murder'd  cruelly. 

Cal.  How -dull  this  music  sounds!     Strike  up  more  sprightly: 
Our  footings  are  not  active  like  our  heart, 
Which  treads  the  nimbler  measure. 

Org.  I  am  thunder-struck. 

They  dance  the  last  Change.     The  Music  ceases. 

Cal.  So  let  us  breathe  awhile  :  hath  not  this  motion 
Rais'd  fresher  color  on  your  cheeks  1  [To  Nearchus. 

Near.  Sweet  Princess, 
A  perfect  purity  of  blood  enamels 
The  beauty  of  your  white. 

Cal.   We  all  look  cheerfully  ; 
A  nd,  cousin,  'tis  methinks  a  rare  presumption 


HIE  BROKEN   HEART.  25 

In  any,  who  prefers  our  lawful  pleasures 
Before  their  own  sour  censure,  to  interrupt 
The  custom  of  this  ceremony  bluntly. 

Near.  None  dares,  Lady. 

Cal.  Yes,  yes  ;  some  hollow  voice  deliver'd  to  me 
How  that  the  King  was  dead. 

Arm.  The  King  is  dead  : 
That  fatal  news  was  mine ;  for  in  mine  arms 
He  breath'd  his  last,  and  with  his  crown  bequeath'd  you 
Your  Mother's  wedding-ring,  which  here  I  tender. 

Crot.   Most  strange. 

Cal.  Peace  crown  his  ashes:  we  are  Queen  then. 

Near.  Long  live  Calantha,  Sparta's  sovereign  Queen. 

All.  Long  live  the  Queen. 

Cal.  What  whisper'd  Bassanes  1 

Bass.  That  my  Penthea,*  miserable  soul, 
Was  starv'd  to  death. 

Cal.  She  's  happy  ;  she  hath  finish'd 
A  long  and  painful  progress. — A  third  murmur 
Pierc'd  mine  unwilling  ears. 

Org.  That  Ithocles 
Was  murdcr'd. 

Cal.  By  whose  hand  ? 

Org.  By  mine  :  this  weapon 
Was  instrument  to  my  revenge.     The  reasonsf 
Are  just  and  known.     Quit  him  of  these,  and  then 
Never  liv'd  gentleman  of  greater  merit, 
Hope,  or  abiliment  to  steer  a  kingdom. 

Cal.  We  begin  our  reign 
With  a  first  act  of  justice  ;  thy  confession, 
Unhappy  Orgilus,  dooms  thee  a  sentence  ; 
But  yet  thy  father's  or  thy  sister's  presence 
Shall  be  excus'd  :  give  Crotolon,^  a  blessing 
To  thy  lost  son  :  Euphranea,§  take  a  farewell  : 

*  Wife  to  Bassanes. 

t  Penthea  (sister  to  Rhodes)  was  betrothed  at  first  to  Orgilus,  but  com- 
pelled by  her  brother  t'>  marry  Bassanes:  by  which  forced  match  she  be- 
coming miserable,  refused  to  take  food,  and  died. 

%  His  Father  §  His  Sister. 


28  ENGLISH  DRAMATIC  POETS. 

And  both  1 

(7b  Orgilus.)     Bloody  relater  of  thy  stains  in  blood 
F<>r  that  thou  hast  reported  him  (whose  fortunes 
And  life  by  thee  arc  both  at  once  snatch'd  from  him) 
With  honorable  mention,  make  thy  choice 
Of  \\  hat  death  likes  thee  best;  there's  all  our  bounty. 
But  to  excuse  delays,  let  me,  dear  cousin, 
Intreat  you  and  these  lords  see  execution. 
Instant,  before  ye  part. 

Near.  Your  will  commands  us. 

Org.    One    suit,   just    Queen ;     my    last.       Vouchsafe     your 
clemency, 
That  by  no  common  hand  I  be  divided 
From  this  my  humble  frailty. 

Cal.  To  their  wisdoms, 
Who  are  to  be  spectators  of  thine  end, 
I  make  the  reference.     Those  that  are  dead, 
Are  dead  ;  had  they  not  now  died,  of  necessity 
They  must  have  paid  the  debt  they  owed  to  nature 
One  time  or  other.     Use  dispatch,  my  lords. — 
We  '11  suddenly  prepare  our  Coronation.  [Exit. 

Arm.  'Tis  strange  these  tragedies  should  never  touch  on 
Her  female  pity. 

Bass.  She  has  a  masculine  spirit. 

The  Coronation  of  the  Princess  takes  place  after  the  execution  of 
Orgilus. —  She  enters  the  Temple*  dressed  in  White,  having  a  Crown 
on  her  Head.  She  kneels  at  the  Altar.  The  dead  body  of  Ithocles 
{whom  she  should  have  married)  is  borne  on  a  hearse,  in  rich  Robes, 
having  a  Crown  on  his  Head :  and  placed  by  the  side  of  the  Altar, 
where  she  kneels.     Her  devotions  ended,  she  rises. — 

Calantha.  Nearchtjs.  Prophilus.  Crotolon.  Bassanes. 
Arbiostes.  Euphanea.  Amelus.  Christalla.  Philema, 
and  others. 

Cal.  Our  orisons  are  heard,  the  gods  are  merciful. 
Now  tell  me,  you,  whose  loyalties  pay  tribute 
To  us  your  lawful  sovereign,  how  unskilful 
Your  duties,  or  obedience  is,  to  render 


THE  BROKEN  HEART.  27 

Subjection  to  the  sceptre  of  a  virgin  ; 

Who  have  been  ever  fortunate  in  princes 

Of  masculine  and  stirring  composition. 

A  woman  has  enough  to  govern  wisely 

Her  own  demeanors,  passions,  and  divisions. 

A  nation  warlike,  and  inured  to  practice 

Of  policy  and  labor,  cannot  brook 

A  ti  in inate  authority  :  we  therefore 

Command  your  counsel,  how  you  may  advise  us 

In  choosing  of  a  husband,  whose  abilities 

Can  better  guide  this  kingdom. 

Near.  Royal  Lady 
Your  law  is  in  your  will. 

Arm.  We  have  seen  tokens 
Of  constancy  too  lately  to  mistrust  it 

Crol.  Yet  if  your  Highness  settle  on  a  choice 
By  your  own  judgment  both  allow'd  and  liked  of, 
Sparta  may  grow  in  power  and  proceed 
To  an  increasing  height. 

Cal.  Cousin  of  Argos. 

Near.  Madam. 

Cal.  Were  I  presently 
To  choose  you  for  my  Lord,  I  '11  open  freely 
What  articles  I  would  propose  to  treat  on, 
Before  our  marriage. 

Near.    Name  them,  virtuous  Lady. 

Cal.   I  would  presume  you  would  retain  the  royalty 
Of  Sparta  in  her  own  bounds :  then  in  Argos 
Armostes  might  be  viceroy;   in  Messene 
Might  Crotolon  bear  sway  :  and  Bessanes 
Be  Sparta's  marshall  : 

The  multitudes  of  high  employments  could  not 
But  set  a  peace  to  private  griefs.     These  gentlemen, 
Groneas  and  Lemophil,  with  worthy  pensions, 
Should  wait  upon  your  person  in  your  chamber. 
I  would  bestow  Christalla  on  Amelus  ; 
She  '11  prove  a  constant  wife :  and  Philema 
Should  into  Vesta's  Tempi  p. 


28  ENGLISH  DRAMATIC  POETS. 

Bass.   This  is  a  testament ; 
It  sounds  not  like  conditions  >>u  n  marriage. 

Near.  All  this  should  be  perform'd. 

Cal.  Lastly  for  Prophilus, 
He  should  be  (cousin)  solemnly  invested 
In  all  those  honors,  titles,  and  preferments, 
Which  his  dear  friend  and  my  neglected  husband 
Too  short  a  time  enjoy'd. 

Proph.    I  am  unworthy 
To  live  in  your  remembrance. 

Enph.   Excellent  Lady. 

Near.  Madam,  what  means  that  word,  neglected  husband  ? 

Cal.  Forgive  me :  Now  I  turn  to  thee,  thou  shadow 

[To  the  dead  body  o/Tthocles 
Of  my  contracted  Lord  :  bear  witness  all, 
I  put  my  mother's  wedding-ring  upon 
His  finger  ;   'twas  my  father's  last  bequest : 
Thus  I  new  marry  him,  whose  wife  I  am  ; 
Death  shall  not  separate  us.     O  my  lords, 
I  but  deceiv'd  your  eyes  with  antick  gesture, 
When  one  news  straight  came  huddling  on  another, 
Of  death,  and  death,  and  death,  still  I  dane'd  forward ; 
But  it  struck  home,  and  here,  and  in  an  instant. 
Be  such  mere  women,  who  with  shrieks  and  outcries 
Can  vow  a  present  end  to  all  their  sorrows  : 
Yet  live  to  vow  new  pleasures,  and  out-live  them. 
They  are  the  silent  griefs  which  cut  the  heart-strings : 
Let  me  die  smiling. 

Near.  'Tis  a  truth  too  ominous. 

Cal.    One  kiss  on  these  cold  lips  ;  my  last.     Crack,  crack. 
Argos  now  's  Sparta's  King.  [Dies. 

[I  do  not  know  where  to  find  in  any  Play  a  catastrophe  so  grand,  so 
solemn,  and  so  surprising  as  this.  This  is  indeed,  according  to  Milton,  to 
"  describe  high  passions  and  high  actions."  The  fortitude  of  the  Spartan 
Boy  who  let  a  beast  gnaw  out  his  bowels  till  he  died  without  expressing  a 
groan,  is  a  faint  bodily  ima°;e  of  this  dilaceration  of  the  spirit,  and  exente- 
ration of  the  inmost  mind,  which  Calantha  with  a  holy  violence  against  her 
nature  keeps  closely  covered,  till  the  last  duties  of  a  Wife  and  a  Queen  are 
fulfilled.  of  martyrdom   ?re  but   of  chains  and  the  stake;  a  little 

bodily  suffering;  tfcese  torments 


HYMEN'S  TRrUMPH.  29 


On  (he  purest  spirits  prey 

As  on  entrails,  joints,  and  limbs, 

With  answerable  pains,  but  more  intense. 

What  a  noble  thing  is  the  soul  in  its  strengths  and  its  weaknesses !  who 
would  be  less  weak  than  Calantha  ?  who  can  be  so  strong  ?  the  expression 
of  this  transcendant  scene  almost  bears  me  in  imagination  to  Calvary  and 
the  Cross  ;  and  I  seem  to  perceive«some  analogy  between  the  scenical  suffer- 
ings which  I  am  here  contemplating,  and  the  real  agonies  of  that  final  com- 
pletion to  which  I  dare  no  more  than  hint  a  reference. 

Ford  was  of  the  first  order  of  Poets.  He  sought  for  sublimity  not  by  par- 
cels in  metaphors  or  visible  images,  but  directly  where  she  has  her  full 
residence  in  the  heart  of  man  ;  in  the  actions  and  sufferings  of  the  greatest 
minds.  There  is  a  grandeur  of  the  soul  above  mountains,  seas,  and  the 
elements.  Even  in  the  poor  perverted  reason  of  Giovanni  and  Annabella 
(in  the  play  which  precedes  this)  we  discern  traces  of  that  fiery  particle, 
which  in  the  irregular  starting  from  out  of  the  road  of  beaten  action, 
discovers  something  of  a  right  line  even  in  obliquity,  and  shows  hints  of  an 
improvable  greatness  in  the  lowest  descents  and  degradations  of  our 
nature.] 


HYMEN'S  TRIUMPH  :  A  PASTORAL  TRAGI-COMEDY. 
BY  SAMUEL  DANIEL. 

Love  in  Infancy. 

Ah,  I  remember  well  (and  how  can  I 

But  evermore  remember  well)  when  first 

Our  flame  began,  when  scarce  we  knew  what  was 

The  flame  we  felt  :   when  as  we  sat  and  sigh'd 

And  look'd  upon  each  other,  and  concciv'd 

Not  what  we  ail'd,  yet  something  we  did  ail  ; 

And  yet  were  well,  and  yet  we  were  not  well 

And  what  was  our  disease  we  could  not  tell. 

Then  would  we  kiss,  then  sigh,  then  look :  And  thus 

In  that  first  garden  of  our  simplen 

We  spent  our  childhood  :  But  when  years  began 

To  reap  the  fruit  of  knowledge  :  ah,  how  then 

Would  she  with  graver  looks,  with  sweet  stern  brow, 

Check  my  presumption  ami  my  forwardness ; 

Yet  still  would  give  me  flowers,  still  would  me  show 

What  she  would  have  me,  yet  not  have  me  know. 


JO  ENGLISH  DRAMATIC  POETS. 


Love  after  Death. 

Palicmon.   Fie,  Thirsis,  with  what  fond  remembrances 
Dost  thou  these  idle  passions  entertain  ! 
For  shame  leave  off  to  waste  your  youth  in  vain, 
And  feed  on  shadows :  make  your  choice  anew ; 
You  other  nymphs  shall  find,  no  doubt  will  be 
As  lovely,  and  as  fair,  and  sweet  as  she. 

Thirsis.  As  fair  and  sweet  as  she  !  Palaemon,  peace  : 
Ah,  what  can  pictures  be  unto  the  life  1 
What  sweetness  can  be  found  in  images  ? 
Which  all  nymphs  else  besides  her  seem  to  me. 
She  only  was  a  real  creature,  she, 
Whose  memory  must  take  up  all  of  me. 
Should  I  another  love,  then  must  I  have 
Another  heart,  for  this  is  full  of  her, 
And  evermore  shall  be  :  here  is  she  drawn 
At  length,  and  whole  :  and  more,  this  table  is 
A  story,  and  is  all  of  her;   and  all 
Wrought  in  the  liveliest  colors  of  my  blood  ; 
And  can  there  be  a  room  for  others  here  ? 
Should  I  disfigure  such  a  piece,  and  blot 
The  perfect'st  workmanship  that  love  e'er  wrought  ? 
Palaemon,  no,  ah  no,  it  cost  too  dear  ; 
It  must  remain  entire  whilst  life  remains, 
The  monument  of  her  and  of  my  pains. 

The  Story  of  Isulia. 

There  was  sometimes  a  nymph, 
Isulia  named,  and  an  Arcadian  born, 
Whose  mother  dying  left  her  very  young 
Unto  her  father's  charge,  who  carefully 
Did  breed  her  up  until  she  came  to  years 
Of  womanhood,  and  then  provides  a  match 
Both  rich  and  young,  and  fit  enough  for  her. 
But  she,  who  to  another  shepherd  had, 
Call'd  Sirthis,  vow'd  her  love,  as  unto  one 
Her  heart  esteem'd  more  worthy  of  her  love, 
Could  .'.  t  I  y  all  her  father's  means  be  wrought 


HYMEN'S  TRIUMPH.  31 


To  leave  her  choice,  and  to  forget  her  vow. 

This  nymph  one  day,  surcharg'd  with  love  and  grief, 

Which  commonly  (the  more  the  pity)  dwell 

As  inmates  both  together,  walking  forth 

With  other  maids  to  fish  upon  the  shore ; 

Estrays  apart,  and  leaves  her  company, 

To  entertain  herself  with  her  own  thoughts  : 

And  wanders  on  so  far,  and  out  of  sight, 

As  she  at  length  was  suddenly  surpris'd 

By  pirates,  who  lay  lurking  underneath 

Those  hollow  rocks,  expecting  there  some  prize. 

And  notwithstanding  all  her  piteous  cries, 

Intreaties,  tears,  and  prayers,  those  fierce  men 

Rent  hair  and  veil,  and  carried  her  by  force 

Into  their  ship,  which  in  a  little  creek 

Hard  by  at  anchor  lay, 

And  presently  hoisted  sail  and  so  away. 

When  she  was  thus  inshipp'd  and  wofully 

Had  cast  her  eyes  about  to  view  that  hell 

Of  horror,  whereinto  she  was  so  suddenly  emplung'd, 

She  spies  a  woman  sitting  with  a  child 

Sucking  her  breast,  which  was  the  captain's  wife. 

To  her  she  creeps,  down  at  her  feet  she  lies  ; 

"  O  woman,  if  that  name  of  a  woman  may 

"  Move  you  to  pity,  pity  a  poor  maid  : 

"  The  most  distressed  soul  that  ever  breath 'd  ; 

"  And  save  me  from  the  hands  of  those  fierce  men. 

"  Let  me  not  be  defil'd  and  made  unclean, 

"  Dear  woman,  now,  and  I  will  be  to  you 

"  The  faithfulPst  slave  that  ever  mistress  serv'd  ; 

"  Never  poor  soul  shall  be  more  dutiful, 

"  To  do  whatever  you  command,  than  I. 

"  No  toil  will  I  refuse  ;  so  that  I  may 

"  Keep  this  poor  body  clean  and  undeflower'd, 

"  Which  is  all  I  will  ever  seek.     For  know 

"  It  is  not  fear  of  death  lays  me  thus  low, 

"  But  of  that  stain  will  make  my  death  to  blush." 

All  this  would  nothing  move  the  woman's  heart. 


ENGLISH    DR  \M  \T1C  POETS. 


Whom  \  (  t  she  would  not  leave,  hut  still  besought ; 

"  O  woman,  by  that  Infant  at  your  breast, 

'•  And  by  the  pains  it  cost  you  in  the  birth, 

"  Save  me,  as  ever  you  desire  to  have 

••  5  our  babe  to  joy  and  prosper  in  the  world  : 

"  Which  will  the  better  prosper  sure,  if  you 

"  Shall  mercy  show,  which  is  with  mercy  paid  !" 

Then  kisses  she  her  feet,  then  kisses  too 

The  infant's  feet ;  and,  "  Oh,  sweet  babe"  (said  she), 

"  Could'st  thou  but  to  thy  mother  speak  for  me, 

"  And  crave  her  to  have  pity  on  my  case, 

"  Thou  might'st  perhaps  prevail  with  her  so  much 

:<  Although  I  cannot;  child,  ha,  could'st  thou  speak." 

Tliu  infant,  whether  by  her  touching  it, 

Or  by  instinct  of  nature,  seeing  her  weep, 

Looks  earnestly  upon  her,  and  then  looks 

Upon  the  mother,  then  on  her  again, 

And  then  it  cries,  and  then  on  either  looks; 

Which  she  perceiving  ;   "Blessed  child"  (said  she), 

"  Although  thou  canst  not  speak,  yet  dost  thou  cry 

"  Unto  thy  mother  for  me.      Hear  thy  child, 

"  Dear  mother,  it  's  for  me  it  cries, 

"  It  's  all  the  speech  it  hath.     Accept  those  cries, 

"  Save  me  at  his  request  from  being  defiPd  : 

"  Let  pity  move  thee,  that  thus  moves  the  child.'" 

The  woman,  tho'  by  birth  and  custom  rude, 

Vi  i  having  veins  of  nature,  could  not  be 

But  pierceable,  did  feel  at  length  the  point 

Of  pity  enter  so,  as  out  gush'd  tears 

(Not  usual  to  stern  eyes),  and  she  besought 

Her  husband  to  bestow  on  her  "that  prize, 

With  safeguard  of  her  body  at  her  will. 

The  captain  seeing  his  wife,  the  child  the  nymph, 

All  crying  to  him  in  this  piteous  sort, 

Felt  his  rough  nature  shaken  too,  and  grants 

His  wife's  request,  and  seals  his  grant  with  tears  ; 

And  so  they  wept  all  four  for  company  : 

And  some  beholders  stood  not  with  dry  eyes  ; 


ran  mph.  >3 

Such  passion  wrought  the  passion  of  their  prize. 
Never  was  there  pardon,  that  did  take 
Condemned  from  the  hlock  more  joyful  than 
This  grant  to  her.      For  all  her  misery 
Seem'd  nothing  to  the  comfort  she  receiv'd, 
r!y  being  thus  saved  from  impurity  : 
And  from  the  woman's  feet  she  would  not  part. 

r  trust  her  hand  to  be  without  some  hold 
Of  her,  or  of  the  child,  so  long  as  she  remain'd 
Within  the  ship,  which  in  few  days  arrives 
xandria,  whence  these  pirates  were  ; 
this  woful  maid  for  two  years  space 
Did  and  truly  serve  this  captain's  wife 

(Who  would  not  lose  the  benefit  of  her 
Attendance,  for  her  profit  otherwise), 
But  daring  not  in  such  a  place  as  that 
To  trust  herself  in  woman's  habit,  crav'd 
I  she  might  be  apparel'd  like  a  boy  ; 
so  she  was,  and  as  a  boy  she  served. 
At  two  years  end  her  mistress  sends  her  forth 
I  nto  the  port  for  some  commodities, 
Which  whilst  she  sought  for,  going  up  and  down, 

neard  some  merchantmen  of  Corinth  talk, 
Who  spake  that  langu;>  Arcadians  did, 

And  were  next  neighbors  of  one  continent, 
To  them,  all  wrapt  with  passion,  down  she  kneels, 
Tells  them  she  was  a  poor  ed  boy, 

Born  in  Arcadia,  and  by  pirates  took, 
And  mad-'  a  slave  in  Egypt  ,   and  besought 
Them,  as  they  fathers  were  of  children,  or 
Did  hold  their  native  country  dear,  they  would 
Take  pity  on  her,  and  relieve  her  youth 
From  that  -  itude  wherein  she  liv'd  : 

which  she  hop'd  that  she  had  friends  alive 
Woi  '  i  thank  them  one  day,  and  reward  them  too ; 
[fnot,  vet  that  she  knew  the  heav'ns  would  do. 
The  merchants  moved  with  pity  of  her  case, 
Being  ready  to  depart,  took  her  with  them. 
PART    II.  4 


34  ENGLISH   DRAM  \TIC  POETS. 


And  landed  her  upon  her  country  coast  : 
Where  when  she  found  rate  falls, 

Kisses  the  ground,  >        ui  to  the  gods, 

Thanks  th<  m  w  ho  had  bi  en  her  deliverers, 
And  on  she  trudg(  s  through  the  desart  vvooi 
Climbs  over  craggy  rocks,  and  mountains  steep, 
Wades  thorough  rivers,  struggles  thorough  hogs, 
Sustained  only  by  the  force  of  love  ; 
Until  she  came  unto  the  native  plains, 
Unto  the  fields  where  first  she  drew  her  breath. 
There  she  lifts  up  her  eyes,  salutes  the  air, 
Salutes  the  trees,  the  bushes,  flow'rs  and  all  : 
And,  "  Oh,  dear  Sirthis,  here  I  am,"  said  she, 
"  Here,  notwithstanding  all  my  miseries, 
"  I  am  the  same  I  was  to  thee  ;  a  pure, 
"  A  chaste,  and  spotless  maid." 


ALAHAM  :  A  TRAGEDY.    BY  FULKE  GREVILLE,  LORD  BROOKE. 

A\ 'ah am,  second  son  to  the  King  of  Ormus,  deposes  his  father  ;  whose 
eyes,  and  the  eyes  of  his  elder  brother  Zophi  (acting  vpon  a  maxim  of 
Oriental  Policy),  he  causes  to  be  put  out  They,  blind,  and  fearing 
for  their  lives,  wander  about.  In  this  extremity  they  are  separately 
met  by  the  King's  daughter  Calica,  who  conducts  them  to  a  place  of 
refvge  ;  hiding  her  father  amid  the  vaults  of  a  temple,  and  guiding 
her  brother  to  take  sanctuary  at  the  altar. 

King.     Cjelica. 

King.  Ccelica  ;  thou  only  child,  whom  I  repent 
Not  yet  to  have  begot,  thy  work  is  vain  : 
Thou  run'st  against  my  destiny's  intent. 
Fear  not  my  fall ;  the  steep  is  fairest  plain ; 
And  error  safest  guide  unto  his  end, 
Who  nothing  but  mischance  can  have  to  friend. 
We  parents  are  but  nature's  nursery  ; 
When  our  succession  springs,  then  ripe  to  fall. 
Privation  unto  age  is  natural. 
Age  there  is  also  in  a  prince's  state, 


\I.\I1\M.  35 


Which  is  contempt,  grown  of  misgovernmgnt ; 

Where  love  of  change  begetteth  princes5  hate  : 

For  hopes  must  wither,  or  grow  violent, 

If  fortune  bind  desires  to  one  estate 

Then  mark  !     Blind,  as  a  man  :  scorn'd,  as  a  king  , 

A  father's  kindness  loath'd,  and  desolate  : 

Life  without  joy,  or  light :  what  can  it  bring, 

But  inward  horror  unto  outward  hate  1 

O  safety !  thou  art  then  a  hateful  thing, 

When  children's  death  assures  the  father's  state. 

No,  safe  I  am  not,  though  my  son  were  slain, 

My  frailty  would  beget  such  sons  again. 

Besides,  if  fatal  be  the  heavens'  will, 

Repining  adds  more  force  to  destiny  ; 

Whose  iron  wheels  stay  not  on  fleshly  wit, 

But  headlong  run  down  steep  necessity. 

And  as  in  danger,  we  do  catch  at  it 

That  comes  to  help  ;  and  unadvisedly 

Oft  do  our  friends  to  our  misfortune  knit : 

So  with  the  harm  of  those  who  would  us  good 

Is  destiny  impossibly  withstood. 

Cselica,  then  cease ;  importune  me  no  more  : 

My  son,  my  age,  the  state  where  things  are  now, 

Require  my  death.     Who  would  consent  to  live 

Where  love  cannot  revenge,  nor  truth  forgive  ? 

CceJica.  Though  fear  see  nothing  but  extremity, 
Yet  danger  is  no  deep  sea,  but  a  ford, 
Where  they  that  yield  can  only  drowned  be. 
In  wrongs,  and  wounds,  Sir,  you  are  too  remiss. 
To  thrones  a  passive  nature  fatal  is. 

King.  Occasion  to  my  son  hath  turn'd  her  face  ; 
My  inward  wants  all  outward  strengths  betray  ; 
And  so  make  that  impossible  I  may. 

Calk  a.  Yet  live  : 
Live  for  the  slate. 

King.  Whose  ruins  glasses  are, 
Wherein  see  errors  of  myself  I  must, 
And  hold  my  life  of  danger,  shame,  and  care. 


36  ENGLISH  DRAMATIC  POETS. 


Calica.  When  fear  propounds,  with  loss  men  ever  choose. 

King.  Nothing  is  left  me  but  myself  to  lose. 

Calica.  And  is  it  nothing  then  to  lose  the  state  ? 

Kmg.  Where  chance  is  ripe,  there  counsel  comes  too  late. 
Cielica,  by  all  thou  ow'st  the  gods  and  me, 
1  do  conjure  thee,  leave  me  to  my  chance. 
What's  past  was  error's  way;  the  truth  it  is, 
W  herein  I  wretch  can  only  go  amiss. 
If  nature  saw  no  cause  of  sudden  ends, 
She,  that  but  one  way  made  to  draw  our  breath, 
Would  not  have  left  so  many  doors  to  death. 

Calica.  Yet,  Sir,  if  weakness  be  not  such  a  sand 
As  neither  wrong  nor  counsel  can  manure  ; 
Choose  and  resolve  what  death  you  will  endure. 

King.  This  sword,  thy  hands,  may  offer  up  my  breath 
And  plague  my  life's  remissness  in  my  death. 

Calica.  Unto  that  duty  if  these  hands  be  born, 
I  must  think  God,  and  truth,  were  names  of  scorn. 
Again,  this  justice  were  if  life  were  loved, 
Now  merely  grace ;  since  death  doth  but  forgive 
A  life  to  you,  which  is  a  death  to  live. 
Pain  must  displease  that  satisfies  offence. 

King.  Chance  hath  left  death  no  more  to  spoil  but  sense. 

Ccelica.  Then  sword,  do  justice'  office  thorough  me  : 
I  offer  more  than  that  he  hates  to  thee. 

[Offers  to  kill  herself. 

King.  Ah  !  stay  thy  hand.     My  state  no  equal  hath, 
And  much  more  matchless  my  strange  vices  be  : 
One  kind  of  death  becomes  not  thee  and  me. 
Kings'  plagues  by  chance  or  destiny  should  fall  ; 
Headlong  he  perish  must  that  ruins  all. 

Calica.  No  cliff  or  rock  is  so  precipitate, 
But  down  it  eyes  can  lead  the  blind  away  ; 
Without  me  live,  or  with  me  die  you  may. 

King.  Cselica,  and  wilt  thou  Alaham  exceed  ? 
His  cruelty  is  death,  you  torments  use  ; 
He  takes  my  crown,  you  take  myself  from  me  ; 
A  prince  of  this  fall'n  empire  let  me  be. 


ALAHAM.  37 


Ccelica.   Then  be  a  king,  no  tyrant  of  thyself: 
Be  :  and  be  what  you  will  :  what  nature  lent 
Is  still  in  hers,  and  not  our  government. 

King.  If  disobedience,  and  obedience  both, 
Still  do  me  hurt ;  in  what  strange  state  am  I  ! 
But  hold  thy  course  :  it  well  becomes  my  blood, 
To  do  their  parents  mischief  with  their  good. 

Ccelica.  Yet,  Sir,  hark  to  the  poor  oppressed  tears 
The  just  men's  moan,  that  suffer  by  your  fall ; 
A  prince's  charge  is  to  protect  them  all. 
And  shall  it  nothing  be  that  I  am  yours  ? 
The  world  without,  my  heart  within,  doth  know, 
[  never  had  unkind,  unreverent  powers. 
If  thus  you  yield  to  Alaham's  treachery, 
He  ruins  you  :   'tis  you,  Sir,  ruin  i 

King.  Cselica,  call  up  the  dead ;  awake  the  blind ; 
Turn  back  the  time  ;  bid  winds  tell  whence  they  come  : 
As  vainl)  strength  speaks  to  a  broken  mind. 
Fly  from  me,  Cselica,  hate  all  I  do  : 
Misfortunes  have  in  blood  successions  too. 

Ccelica.  Will  you  do  that  which  Alaham  cannot  ? 
He  hath  no  good  ;  you  have  no  ill,  but  he  : 
This  mar-right  yielding  's  honor's  tyranny. 

King.  Have  I  not  clone  amiss  ?  am  I  not  ill, 
That  ruin'd  have  aging's  authority  ? 
And  not  one  king  alone  :  since  princes  all 
Feel  part  of  those  scoi'ns.  whereby  one  doth  fall. 
Treason  against  me  cannot  treason  be  : 
All  laws  have  lost  authority  in  me. 

Ccelica.  The  laws  of  power  chain'd  to  men's  humors  be. 
The  good  have  conscit  n<  -  ;  the  ill  (like  instruments) 
Are,  in  the  hands  of  wise  authority, 
Moved,  divided,  used,  or  laid  down; 
Still,  with  desire,  kept  subject  to  a  crown. 
Stir  up  all  states,  all  spirits  :  hope  and  fear, 
Wrong  and  revenge,  are  current  everywhere. 

King.  Put  down  my  son  :   for  that  must  be  the  way  : 
A  father's  shame  ;  a  prince's  tyranny  : 


ENGLISH  DRAMATIC  POETS 

The  sceptre  ever  shall  misjudged  be. 

Cctlica.  Let  them  fear  rumor  that  do  work  amiss; 
Blood,  torments,  death,  horrors  of  cruelty, 
Have  time,  and  place.     Look  through  these  skins  of  fear, 
Which  still  persuade  the  better  side  to  bear. 
And  since  thy  son  thus  trait'rously  conspires, 
Let  him  not  prey  on  all  thy  race,  and  thee : 
Keep  ill  example  from  posterity. 

King.  Danger  is  come,  and  must  I  now  unarm, 
And  let  in  hope  to  weaken  resolution  ? 
Passion  !  be  thou  my  legacy  and  will ; 
To  thee  I  give  my  life,  crown,  reputation  ; 
My  pomps  to  cloud ;  and  (as  forlorn  with  men) 
My  strength  to  women  ;  hoping  this  alone, 
Though  fear'd,  sought,  and  a  king,  to  live  unknown. 
Cselica,  all  these  to  thee  ;  do  thou  bestow 
This  living  darkness,  wherein  I  do  go. 

Codica.   My  soul  now  joys.     Doing  breathes  horror  out 
Absence  must  be  our  first  step.     Let  us  fly : 
A  pause  in  rage  makes  Alaham  to  doubt ; 
Which  doubt  may  stir  in  people  hope,  and  fear, 
With  love,  or  hate,  to  seek  you  everywhere. 
For  princes'  lives  are  fortune's  misery  : 
As  dainty  sparks,  which  till  men  dead  do  know, 
To  kindle  for  himself  each  man  doth  blow. 
But  hark  !  what's  this  ?     Malice  doth  never  sleep  : 
I  hear  the  spies  of  power  drawing  near. 
Sir,  follow  me  :  Misfortune's  worst  is  come  ; 
Her  strength  is  changed  :  and  change  yields  better  doom. 
Choice  now  is  past.     Hard  by  there  is  a  pile, 
Built  under  color  of  a  sacrifice  ; 
If  God  do  grant,  it  is  a  place  to  save ; 
If  God  denies,  it  is  a  ready  grave. 

Zophi  appears. 

Calica.  What  see  I  here  ?  more  spectacles  of  woe  ! 
And  are  my  kindred  only  made  to  be 
Agents  and  patients  in  iniquity  ? 


ALAHAM.  39 


Ah  forlorn  wretch  !  ruin's  example  right ! 

Lost  to  thyself,  not  to  thy  enemy, 

AVIio.se  hand  even  while  thou  fliest  thou  fall'st  into  ; 

And  with  thy  fall  thy  father  dost  undo. 

Save  one  I  may  :  Nature  would  save  them  both  ; 

But  Chance  hath  many  wheels,  Rage  many  eyes. 

What,  shall  1  then  abandon  Innocents?* 

Not  help  a  helpless  brother  thrown  on  me  ? 

Is  nature  narrow  to  adversity  ? 

No,  no.     Our  God  left  duty  for  a  law  ; 

Pity,  at  large  ;  love,  in  authority  ; 

Despair,  in  bonds  ;   fear,  of  itself  in  awe  : 

That  rage  of  time,  and  power's  strange  liberty, 

Oppressing  good  men,  might  resistance  find  : 

Nor  can  I  to  a  brother  be  less  kind. 

Dost  thou,  that  canst  not  see,  hope  to  escape  1 

Disgrace  can  have  no  friend  ;  contempt  no  guide  ; 

Right  is  thy  guilt ;  thy  judge  iniquity  ; 

Which  desolation  casts  on  them  that  see. 

Zophi.     Make  calm  thy  rage  :  pity  a  ghost  distrest : 
My  right,  my  liberty,  I  freely  give  : 
Give  him.  that  never  harm'd  thee,  leave  to  live. 

Calica.  Nay,  God,  the  world,  thy  parents  it  deny  ; 
A  brother's  jealous  heart ;   usurped  might 
Grows  friends  with  all  the  world,  except  thy  right. 

Zophi.  Secure  thyself.     Exile  me  from  this  coast : 
My  fault,  suspicion  is  ;   my  judge,  is  fear  ; 
Occasion,  with  myself,  away  I  bear. 

Ccelica.     Fly  unto  God  :  for  in  humanity 
Hope  there  is  none.      Reach  me  thy  fearful  hand  : 
I  am  thy  sister  ;  neither  fiend,  nor  spy 
Of  tyrant's  rage  ;  but  one  that  feels  despair 
Of  thy  estate,  which  thou  dost  only  fear. 
Kneel  down  ;  embrace  this  holy  mystery  ; 
.V  refuge  to  the  worst  for  rape  and  blood, 
And  yet,  I  fear,  not  hallow'd  for  the  good. 

*  Zophi  is  represented  as  a  prince  of  weak  understanding. 


40  ENGLISH   DRAMATIC  POETS. 


Zophi.  Help,  God  !  defend  thine  altar  !  since  thy  might, 
In  earth,  leaves  innocents  no  other  right. 

Ccelica.  Eternal  God  !  that  see'st  thyself  in  us, 
If  vows  be  more  than  sacrifice  of  lust, 
Rais'd  from  the  smokes  of  hope  and  fear  in  us, 
Protect  this  Innocent,  calm  Alaham's  rage  ; 
By  miracles  faith  goes  from  age  to  age. 
Affection  trembles  ;   reason  is  opprest ; 
Nature,  methinks,  doth  her  own  entrails  tear  ; 
In  resolution  ominous  is  fear. 

Jilaham  causes  Search  to  be  made  after  his  Father  and  Brother.  Zophi 
is  discovered,  and  Ccelica  ;  who,  being  questioned  by  Jilaham  where  she 
has  hid  her  Father,  dissembles  as  though  she  thought  that  the  King  was 
dead ;  but  being  threatened  with  the  rack,  her  Exclamations  call  her 
Father  from  his  hiding-place  ;  who,  together  u-ith  her,  and  her  Brother 
Zophi,  aresentenced  by  Alaham  to  the  Flames 

Alahai\i.     Attendants. 

Alaham.  Sirs,  seek  the  city,  examine,  torture,  rack  ; 
Sanctuaries  none  let  there  be  ;   make  darkness  known  ; 
Pull  down  the  roofs,  dig,  burn,  put  all  to  wrack  ; 
And  let  the  guiltless  for  the  guilty  groan. 
Change,  shame,  misfortune,  in  their  'scaping  lie, 
And  in  their  finding  our  prosperity. 

He  sees  Ccelica. 

Good  fortune  welcome  !     We  have  lost  our  care, 
And  found  our  loss :  Ceelica  distract  I  see. 
The  king  is  near  :  She  is  her  father's  eyes. 

He  sees  Zophi. 

Behold  !  the  forlorn  wretch,  half  of  my  fear, 
Takes  sanctuary  at  holy  altar's  feet : 
Lead  him  apart,  examine,  force,  and  try  ; 
These  bind  the  subject  not  the  monarchy. 
Cselica  !  awake  :  that  God  of  whom  you  crave 
Is  deaf,  and  only  gives  men  what  they  have. 

Ccelica.   Ah  cruel  wretch  !  guilty  of  parent's  blood  ! 
Might  I,  poor  innocent,  my  father  free, 


ALAHAM.  41 


My  murther  yet  were  less  impiety. 
But  on  ;  devour  :  fear  only  to  be  good  : 
Let  us  not  scape :  thy  glory  then  doth  rise, 
"VY  hen  thou  at  once  thy  house  dost  sacrifice. 

Alaham.  Tell  me  where  thy  father  is. 

Ccelica.  O  bloody  scorn. 
Must  he  be  kilTd  again  that  gave  thee  breath  ? 
Is  duty  nothing  else  in  thee  but  death  ? 

Alaham.   Leave  off  this  mask  ;  deceit  is  never  wise  ; 
Though  he  be  blind,  a  king  hath  many  eyes. 

Ccelica.  O  twofold  scorn  !     God  be  reveng'd  for  me. 
Yet  since  my  father  is  destroy'd  by  thee, 
Add  still  more  scorn,  it  sorrow  multiplies. 

Alaham.  Passions  are  learn'd,  not  bom  within  the  heart, 
That  method  keep  :  Order  is  quiet's  art. 
Tell  where  he  is  :  for  look  what  love  conceals, 
Pain  out  of  nature's  labyrinths  reveals. 

Ccelica.  This  is  reward  which  thou  dost  threaten  me 
If  terror  thou  wilt  threaten,  promise  j  ■  ■ 

Alaham.  Smart  cools  these  boiling  styles  of  vanity. 

Ccelica.  And  if  my  father  I  no  more  shall  see, 
Help  me  unto  the  place  where  he  remains  : 
To  hell  below,  or  to  the  sky  above, 
The  wav  is  easy  where  the  guide  is  love. 

Alaham.  Confess  ;   where  is  he  hid  ? 

Ccelica.  Rack  not  my  woe. 
Thy  glorious  pride  of  this  unglorious  deed 
Doth  mischief  ripe,  and  therefore  falling,  show. 

Alaham.  Bodies  have  place,  and  blindness  must  be  led 
Graves  be  the  thrones  of  king's  when  they  be  dead. 

Ccelica.   He  was  (unhappy)  cause  that  thou  art  now  ; 
Thou  art,  ah  wicked  !  cause  that  he  is  not, 
And  fear'st  thou  parricide  can  be  forgot  1 
Bear  witness,  though  Almighty  God  on  high, 
And  you  black  powers  inhabiting  below. 
That  for  his  liff  myself  would  yield  to  die. 

Alaham.   Well,  Sirs,  go  seek  the  dark  and  secret  caves, 
The  holy  temples,  sanctified  dells, 


49  .  NGLISH  DRAMATIC  POETS. 


All  parts  wherein  a  living  corpse  may  dwell. 

Ccdica.  Seek  him  amongst  the  dead,  you  placed  him  there 
Yet  lose  no  pains,  good  souls,  go  not  to  hell ; 
And,  hut  to  heaven,  you  may  go  everywhere. 
Guilty,  with  you,  of  his  blood  let  me  be, 
If  any  more  I  of  my  father  know, 
Than  that  he  is  where  you  would  have  him  go. 

Alaham.  Tear  up  the  vaults.     Behold  her  agonies  ! 
Sorrow  subtracts,  and  multiplies,  the  spirits  ; 
Care,  and  desire,  do  under  anguish  cease  ; 
Doubt  curious  is,  affecting  piety  ; 
Woe  loves  itself;   fear  from  itself  would  fly. 
Do  not  these  trembling  motions  witness  bear, 
That  all  these  protestations  be  of  fear  ? 

Ccdica.  If  aught  be  quick  in  me,  move  it  with  scorn  ; 
Nothing  can  come  amiss  to  thoughts  forlorn. 

Alaham.  Confess  in  time.     Revenge  is  merciless. 

Calica.  Reward  and  pain,  fear  and  desire  too. 
Are  vain  in  things  impossible  to  do. 

Alaham.  Tell  yet  where  thou  thy  father  last  did  see. 

Ca>lica.  Even  where  he  by  his  loss  of  eyes  hath  won 
That  he  no  more  shall  see  his  monstrous  son. 
First  in  perpetual  night  thou  mad'st  him  go  ; 
His  flesh  the  grave  ;  his  life  the  stage,  where  sense 
Plays  all  the  tragedies  of  pain  and  woe. 
And  wouldst  thou  trait'rously  thyself  exceed, 
By  seeking  thus  to  make  his  ghost  to  bleed  ? 

Alaham.  Bear  her  away  :  devise  ;  add  to  the  rack 
Torments,  that  both  call  death  and  turn  it  back. 

Calico.  The  flattering  glass  of  power  is  others'  pain. 
Perfect  thy  work  ;  that  heaven  and  hell  may  know, 
To  worse  I  cannot,  going  from  thee,  go. 
Eternal  life,  that  ever  liv'st  above  ! 
If  sense  there  be  with  thee  of  hate,  or  love  ; 
Revenge  my  king  and  father's  overthrow. 
O  father !  if  that  name  reach  up  so  high, 
And  be  more  than  a  proper  word  of  art, 
To  teach  respects  in  our  humanity  ; 


\:,l.  43 


Accept  these  pains,  whereof  you  feel  no  smart. 

The  King  comes  forth. 

Kins-   What  sound  is  this  of  Caelica's  distress  1 
Alaham,  wrong  not  a  silly  sister's  faith. 
'Tis  plague  enough  that  she  is  innocent  ; 
My  child,  thy  sister  j   horn  (by  thee  and  me) 
With  shame  and  sin  to  have  affinity. 
Break  me  ;   I  am  the  prison  of  thy  thought  : 
Crowns  dear  enough  with  father's  blood  are  bought. 

Alaham.   Now  feel  thou  shalt,  thou  ghost  unnatural, 
Those  wounds  which  thou  to  my  heart  did'st  give, 
When,  in  despite  of  God,  this  state  and  me, 
Thou  did'st  from  death  mine  elder  brother  free. 
The  smart  of  king's  oppression  doth  not  die  : 
Time  rusteth  malice ;   rust  wounds  cruelly. 

King.  Flatter  thy  wickedness ;  adorn  thy  rage  ; 
To  wear  a  crown,  tear  up  thy  father's  age. 
Kill  not  thy  sister  :  it  is  lack  of  wit 
To  do  an  ill  that  brings  no  good  with  it. 

Alaham.  Go,  lead  them  hence.     Prepare  the  funeral. 
Hasten  the  sacrifice  and  pomp  of  woe. 
Where  she  did  hide  him,  thither  let  them  go. 

A  JYuntius  (or  Messenger)  relates  to  Alaham  the  manner  of  his 
Father's,  Brother's,  and  Sister's  deaths;  and  the  popular  discontents 
which  followed.  Alaham  by  the  sudden  working  of  Remorse  is  dis- 
tracted, and  imagines  that  he  sees  their  Ghosts. 

Alaham.     Nuntius. 

Nuntius.  The  first  which  burnt,  as  Cain*  his  next  of  kin. 
In  blood  your  brother,  and  your  prince  in  state, 
Drew  wonder  from  men's  hearts,  brought  horror  in. 
This  innocent,  this  soul  too  meek  for  sin, 
Yet  made  for  others  to  do  harm  withal, 
With  his  self-pity  tears  drew  tears  from  us  ; 

*  The  execution,  to  make  it  plausible  to  the  people,  is  colored  with  the 
pretext,  that  the  being  burnt  is  a  voluntary  sacrifice  of  themselves  by  the 
victims  at  the  funeral  of  Cain  a  bashaw  and  relative. 


44  ENGLISH    DRAMATIC   POETS. 

His  blood  compassion  had  :  his  wrong  stirr'd  hate  : 

Deceit  is  odious  in  a  king's  estate. 

Rcpiningly  he  goes  unto  his  end  : 

Strange  visions  rise;  strange  furies  haunt  the  flame  ; 

People  cry  out,  Echo  repeats,  his  nan 

These  words  he  spake,  even  breathing  out  his  breath 

"  Unhappy  weakness  !  never  innocent ! 

"  If  in  a  crown,  yet  but  an  instrument. 

"  People  !  observe  ;  this  fact  may  make  you  see, 

"  Excess  hath  ruin'd  what  itself  did  build  : 

"  But  ah  !  the  more  opprest  the  more  you  yield."' 

The  next  was  He  whose  age  had  reverence, 

His  gesture  something  more  than  privateness  ; 

Guided  by  One,  whose  stately  grace  did  move 

Compassion,  even  in  hearts  that  could  not  love. 

As  soon  as  these  approached  near  the  dame, 

The  wind,  the  steam,  or  furies,  rais'd  their  veils  ; 

And  in  their  looks  this  image  did  appear  : 

Each  unto  other,  life  to  neither,  dear. 

These  words  he  spake.      "  Behold  one  that  hath  lost 

"  Himself  within  ;  and  so  the  world  without ; 

"  A  king,  that  brings  authority  in  doubt : 

"  This  is  the  fruit  of  power's  misgovernment. 

"  People  !  my  fall  is  just  ;   yet  strange  your  fate. 

"  That,  under  worst,  will  hope  for  better  state." 

Grief  roars  aloud.     Your  sister  yet  remain'd  ; 

Helping  in  death  to  him  in  whom  she  died  ; 

Then  going  to  her  own,  as  if  she  gain'd, 

These  mild  words  spake  with  looks  to  heaven  bent. 

"  O  God  !     'Tis  thou  that  suff'rest  here,  not  we  : 

"  Wrong  doth  but  like  itself  in  working  thus : 

"  At  thy  will,  Lord  !  revenge  thyself,  not  us." 

The  fire  straight  upward  bears  the  souls  in  breath  : 

Visions  of  horror  circle  in  the  flame 

With  shapes  and  figures  like  to  that  of  Death, 

But  lighter- tongued  and  nimbler  wing'd  than  Fame  : 

Some  to  the  church  ;  some  to  the  people  fly  : 

A  voice  cries  out ;  "  revenge  and  liberty. 


MUSTAPHA.  46 


"  Princes,  take  heed  ;  your  glory  is  your  care  ; 

"  And  power's  foundations,  strengths,  not  vices,  are." 

Alalia m.   What  change  is  this,  that  now  I  feel  within  I 
Is  it  disease  that  works  this  fall  of  spirits  .; 
Or  works  this  fall  of  spirits  my  diseas 
Things  seem  not  as  they  did  ;   horror  appears. 
What  Sin  embodied,  what  strange  sight  is  this  ? 
Doth  sense  bring  back  but  what  within  me  is  ? 
Or  do  I  see  those  shapes  which  haunt  the  flame  '. 
What  summons  up  remorse?     Shall  conscience  rate 
Kings'  deeds,  to  make  them  less  than  their  estate  ? 
Ah  silly  ghost!  is  't  you  that  swarm  about  ' 
Would'st  thou,  that  art  not  now,  a  father  be? 
These  body  laws  do  with  the  life  go  out, 
What  thoughts  be  these  that  do  my  i  atrails  tear  ? 
You  wand'ring  spirits  frame  in  me  your  hell  ; 
I  feel  my  brother  and  my  sister  there. 


MUSTAPHA  :    A  TRAGEDY.     BY  FULKE  GREVILLE,  LORD 

BROOKE. 

JRossa,  Wife  to  Solyman,  the  Turkish  Emperor,  persuades  her  Husband, 
that  Mustapha,  his  Son  by  a  formt  r  Marriage,  and  Heir  to  his  Crown, 
seeks  his  life  :  that  she  may  moke  way,  by  ihe  death  of  Mustapha,  for 
the  advancement  of  her  own  children,  Zanger  and  Camena.  Comma, 
the  virtuous  Daughter  of  Rossa,  defends  the  Innocence  of  Mustapha, 
in  a  Conference  which  she  holds  with  the  Emperor. 

Camena.     Solyman. 

Cam.  They  that  from  youth  do  suck  at  fortune's  breast 
And  nurse  their  empty  hearts  with  seeking  higher, 
Like  dr  ipsy-fed,  their  thirst  doth  never  r< 
For  still,  by  getting,  the\ 

Till  thoughts,  like  wood,  while  they  maintain  the  flame 
Of  high  desires,  grow  ashes  in  the  same. 
But  virtue  !  those  that  c?n  behold  thy  beauties, 


46  ENGLISH  DRAMATIC   POETS. 

Those  that  suck,  from  their  youth,  thy  milk  of  goodness, 
Their  minds  grow  strong  against  the  storms  of  fortune, 
And  stand,  like  rocks  in  winter-gusts,  unshaken  ; 
Not  with  the  blindness  of  desire  mistaken. 

0  virtue  therefore  !  whose  thrall  I  think  fortune, 
Thou  who  despisest  not  the  sex  of  women, 
Help  me  out  of  these  riddles  of  my  fortune, 
Wherein  (methinks)  you  with  yourself  do  pose  me  ; 
Let  fates  go  on  :  sweet  virtue  !  do  not  lose  me. 

My  mother  and  my  husband  have  conspired, 
For  brother's  good,  the  ruin  of  my  brother  : 
My  father  by  my  mother  is  inspired, 
For  one  child  to  seek  ruin  of  another. 

1  that  to  help  by  nature  am  required. 

While  I  do  help,  must  needs  still  hurt  a  brother. 

While  I  see  who  conspire,  I  seem  conspired 

Against  a  husband,  father  and  a  mother. 

Truth  bids  me  run.  by  truth  I  am  retired  ; 

Shame  leads  me  both  the  one  way,  and  the  other. 

In  what  a  labyrinth  is  honor  cast, 

Drawn  divers  ways  with  sex,  with  time,  with  state, 

In  all  which,  error's  course  is  infinite. 

By  hope,  by  fear,  by  spite,  by  love,  and  hate  ; 

And  but  one  only  way  unto  the  right, 

A  thorny  way,  where  pain  must  be  the  guide, 

Danger  the  light,  offence  of  power  the  praise  : 

Such  are  the  golden  hopes  of  iron  days. 

Yet  virtue,  I  am  thine,  for  thy  sake  grieved 

(Since  basest  thoughts,  for  their  ill-plac'd  desires, 

In  shame,  in  danger,  death,  and  torment,  glory) 

That  I  cannot  with  more  pains  write  thy  story. 

Chance,  therefore,  if  thou  scornest  those  that  scorn  thes  • 

Fame,  if  thou  hatest  those  that  force  thy  trumpet 

To  sound  aloud,  and  yet  despise  thy  sounding ; 

Laws,  if  you  love  not  those  that  be  examples 

Of  nature's  laws,  whence  you  are  fall'n  corrupted  ; 

Conspire  that  I,  against  you  all  conspired. 

Joined  with  tyrant  virtue,  as  you  call  her, 


MUSTAPHA.  47 


That  T,  by  your  revenges  may  be  named, 

For  virtue,  to  be  ruin'd,  and  defamed. 

My  mother  oft  and  diversly  I  warned, 

What  fortunes  were  upon  such  courses  builded  : 

That  fortune  still  must  be  with  ill  maintained, 

Which  at  the  first  with  any  ill  is  gained. 

I  Rosten*  warn'd,  that  man's  self-loving  thought 

Still  creepeth  to  the  rude-embracing  might 

Of  princes'  grace  :  a  lease  of  glories  let, 

Which  shining  burns  ;  breeds  serenes  when  tis  set. 

And,  by  this  creature  of  my  mother's  making, 

This  messenger,  I  Mustapha  have  warn'd, 

That  innocence  is  not  enough  to  save, 

Where  good  and  greatness,  fear  and  envy  have. 

Till  now.  in  reverence  I  have  forborn 

To  ask,  or  to  presume  to  guess,  or  know 

My  father's  thoughts  ;  whereof  he  might  think  scorn  : 

For  dreadful  is  that  power  that  all  may  do  ; 

Yet  they,  that  all  men  fear,  are  fearful  too. 

Lo  where  he  sits  !  Virtue,  work  thou  in  me, 

That  what  thou  seekest  may  accomplish'd  be. 

Solym.  Ah  death  !  is  not  thyself  sufficient  anguish, 
But  thou  must  borrow  fear,  that  threatning  glass, 
Which,  while  it  goodness  hides,  and  mischief  shows, 
Doth  lighten  wit  to  honor's  overthrows  1 
But  hush  !  methinks  away  Camena  steals  ; 
Murther,  belike,  in  me  itself  reveals. 
Camena  !  whither  now  ?  why  haste  you  from  me  ? 
Is  it  so  strange  a  thing  to  be  a  father  ? 
Or  is  it  I  that  am  so  strange  a  father  I 

Cam.  My  lord,  methought,  nay,  sure  I  saw  you  busy : 
Your  child  presumes,  uncall'd,  that  comes  unto  you. 

Solym.  Who  may  presume  with  fathers,  but  their  own, 
Whom  nature's  law  hath  ever  in  protection, 
And  gilds  in  good  belief  of  dear  aifection  ? 

Cam.   Nay,  reverence,  Sir,  so  children's  worth  doth  hide, 

*  Her  Husband. 


48  ENGLISH  DRAMATIC  POETS. 

As  of  the  fathers  it  is  least  espy'd. 

Solym.   I  think  'tis  true  who  know  their  children  least, 
Have  greatest  reason  to  esteem  them  best. 

Cam.  H"u  so,  my  lord?  since  love  in  knowledge  lives, 
Which  unto  strangers  therefore  no  man  gives. 

Solym.  The  life  we  gave  them  soon  they  do  forget, 
While  they  think  our  lives  do  their  fortunes  let. 

Cam.  The  tenderness  of  life  it  is  so  great, 
As  any  sign  of  death  we  hate  too  much ; 
And  unto  parents  sons,  perchance,  are  such. 
Yet  nature  meant  her  strongest  unity 
Twixt  sons  and  fathers  :  making  parents  cause 
Unto  the  sons,  of  their  humanity  ; 
And  children  pledge  of  their  eternity. 
Fathers  should  love  this  image  in  their  sons. 

Solym.  But  streams  back  to  their  springs  do  never  run. 

Cam.  Pardon,  my  lord,  doubt  is  succession's  foe  : 
Let  not  her  mists  poor  children  overthrow. 
Though  streams  from  springs  do  seem  to  run  away, 
Tis  nature  leads  them  to  their  mother  sea. 

Solym.  Doth  nature  teach  them,  in  ambition's  strife, 
To  seek  his  death,  by  whom  they  have  their  life  ? 

Cam.  Things  easy,  to  desire  impossible  do  seem  : 
"Why  should  fear  make  impossible  seem  easy  1 

Solym.  Monsters  yet  be,  and  being  are  believed. 

Cam.  Incredible  hath  some  inordinate  progression: 
Blood,  doctrine,  age,  corrupting  liberty. 
Do  all  concur,  where  men  such  monsters  be. 
Pardon  me,  Sir,  if  duty  do  seem  angry  : 
Affection  must  breathe  out  afflicted  breath, 
"Where  imputation  hath  such  easy  faith. 

Solym.  Mustapha  is  he  that  hath  defil'd  his  nest ; 
The  wrong  the  greater  for  I  loved  him  best. 
He  hath  devised  that  all  at  once  should  die. 
Rosten,  and  Rossa,  Zanger,  thou  and  I. 

Cam.  Fall  none  but  angels  suddenly  to  hell  ? 
Are  kind  and  order  grown  precipitate  ? 
Did  ever  anv  other  man  but  he 


MUSTAPHA.  49 


In  instant  lose  the  use  of  doing  well  ? 

Sir,  these  be  mists  of  greatness.     Look  again  : 

For  kings  that,  in  their  fearful  icy  state, 

Behold  their  children  as  their  winding-sheet, 

Do  easily  doubt ;  and  what  they  doubt,  they  hate. 

Solym.  Camena  !  thy  sweet  youth,  that  knows  no  ill, 
Cannot  believe  thine  elders,  when  they  say, 
That  good  belief  is  great  estates'  decay. 
Let  it  suffice,  that  I,  and  Rossa  too, 
Are  privy  what  your  brother  means  to  do. 

Cam.  Sir,  pardon  me,  and  nobly,  as  a  father, 
What  I  shall  say,  and  say  of  holy  mother; 
Know  I  shall  say  it,  but  to  right  a  brother. 
My  mother  is  your  wife :  duty  in  her 
Is  love :  she  loves  :  which  not  well  govern'd,  bears 
The  evil  angel  of  misgiving  fears  ; 
Whose  many  eyes,  whilst  but  itself  they  see, 
Still  makes  the  worst  of  possibility  : 
Out  of  this  fear  she  Mustapha  accuseth  : 
Unto  this  fear,  perchance,  she  joins  the  love 
Which  doth  in  mothers  for  their  children  move. 
Perchance,  when  fear  hath  show'd  her  yours  must  fall, 
In  love  she  sees  that  hers  must  rise  withall. 
Sir,  fear  a  frailty  is,  and  may  have  grace, 
And  over-care  of  you  cannot  be  blamed  ; 
Care  of  our  own  in  nature  hath  a  place  ; 
Passions  are  oft  mistaken  and  misnamed  ; 
Things  simply  good  grow  evil  with  misplacing. 
Though  laws  cut  off,  and  do  not  care  to  fashion, 
Humanity  of  error  hath  compassion. 
Yet  God  forbid,  that  either  fear,  or  care, 
Should  ruin  those  that  true  and  faultless  are. 

Solym.  Is  it  no  fault,  or  fault  I  may  forgi\.  . 
For  son  to  seek  the  father  should  not  live  1 

Cam.  Is  it  a  fault,  or  fault  for  you  to  know, 
IVIy  mother  doubts  a  thing  that  is  not  so  ? 
These  ugly  works  of  monstrous  parricide, 
Mark  from  what  hearts  they  rise,  and  where  they  bide . 

PART    II.  5 


ENGLISH  DRAMATIC  POETS. 


Violent,  despair'd,  where  honor  broken  is; 

r  lord,  time  death  ;  where  hope  is  misery  ; 
Doubt  having  stopt  all  honest  ways  to  bliss  ; 
And  custom  shut  the  windows  up  of  shame, 
That  craft  may  take  upon  her  wisdom's  name. 
Compare  now  Mustapha  with  this  despair  : 
Sweet  youth,  sure  hopes,  honor,  a  father's  love, 
No  infamy  to  move,  or  banish  fear, 

Honor  to  stay,  hazard  to  hasten  fate  :  

Can  horrors  work  in  such  a  child's  estate  ? 

Besides,  the  gods,  whom  kings  should  imitate, 

Have  placed  you  high  to  rule,  not  overthrow  ; 

For  us,  not  for  yourselves,  is  your  estate  : 

Mercy  must  hand  in  hand  with  power  go. 

Your  sceptre  should  not  strike  with  arms  of  fear, 

Which  fathoms  all  men's  imbecility, 

And  mischief  doth,  lest  it  should  mischief  bear. 

As  reason  deals  within  with  frailty, 

Which  kills  not  passions  that  rebellious  are, 

But  adds,  subtracts,  keeps  down  ambitious  spirits. 

So  must  power  form,  not  ruin  instruments : 

For  flesh  and  blood,  the  means  'twixt  heav'n  and  hell, 

Unto  extremes  extremely  racked  be  ; 

Which  kings  in  art  of  government  should  see  : 

Else  they,  which  circle  in  themselves  with  death, 

Poison  the  air  wherein  they  draw  their  breath. 

Pardon,  my  lord,  pity  becomes  my  sex  : 

Grace  with  delay  grows  weak,  and  fury  wise. 

Remember  Theseus'  wish,  and  Neptune's  haste, 

Kill'd  innocence,  and  left  succession  waste. 

Solym.  If  what  were  best  for  them  that  do  offend, 
Laws  did  inquire,  the  answer  must  be  grace. 
If  mercy  be  so  large,  where  's  justice'  place  ? 

Cam.  Where  love  despairs,  and  where  God's  promise  ends. 
For  mercy  is  the  highest  reach  of  wit, 
A  safety  unto  them  that  save  with  it : 
Born  out  of  God,  and  unto  human  eyes, 
Like  God,  not  seen,  till  fleshly  j  assion  dies. 


MLST\PHA.  -M 


Soly?n.  God  may  forgive,  whose  being,  and  whose  harms 
Are  far  removed  from  reach  of  fleshly  arms  : 
But  if  God  equals  or  successors  had, 
Even  God  of  safe  revenges  would  be  glad. 

Cam.  While  he  is  yet  alive,  he  may  be  slain  ; 
But  from  the  dead  no  flesh  comes  back  asjain. 

SoJym.   While  he  remains  alive,  I  live  in  fear. 

Cam.   Though  he  were  dead,  that  doubt  still  living  were. 

Solym.  None  hath  the  power  to  end  what  he  begun. 

Cam.  The  same  occasion  follows  every  son. 

Solym.  Their  greatness,  or  their  worth,  is  not  so  much. 

Cam.  And  shall  the  best  be  slain  for  being  such  ? 
:um.  Thy  mother,  or  thy  brother,. are  amiss; 
I  am  betray'd,  and  one  of  them  it  is. 

Cam.  My  mother  if  she  errs,  errs  virtuously  ; 
And  let  her  err.  ere  Mustapha  should  die. 

Solym.  Kings  for  their  safety  must  not  blame  mistrust. 

Cam.  Nor  for  surmises  sacrifice  the  just. 

Solym.   Well,  dear  Camena,  keep  this  secretly  : 
I  will  be  well  advised  before  he  die. 

Heli  a  Priest  acquaints  Mustapha  with  the  intentions  of  his  Father 
towards  him,  and  counsels  him  to  seek  his  safety  in  the  Destruction  of 
Rossa  and  her  Faction.  .Mustapha  refuses  to  save  his  Life  at  the 
Expense  of  the  Public  Peace :  and  being  sent  for  by  his  Father,  obeys 
the  .Man''  I  estruci 

Priest.  Thy  father  purposeth  thy  death. 

Must.   What  have  I  to  my  father  done  amiss? 

Priest.  That  wicked  Rossa  thy  step-mother  is. 

Must.   Wherein  have  I  of  Rossa  ill-deserved  ? 

Priest.  In  'hat  the  empire  is  for  thee  reserved. 

Must.  Is  it  a  fault  to  be  my  father's  son  ) 
Ah  foul  ambition  !  which  like  water  floods 
channel-bound  dos  ibors  over-run, 

And  growest  nothing  when  thy  rage  is  done. 
.Must  Rossa's  heirs  out  of  my  ashes  rise  ? 
Yet,  Zanger,  I  acquit  thee  of  my  blood ; 
For  I  believe,  thy  heart  hath  no  impression 
To  ruin  Mustapha  for  his  succession. 


52  ENGLISH  DRAMATIC  POETS. 


But  tell  what  colors  they  against  me  use, 

Ami  how  my  father's  love  they  first  did  wound  ? 

Priest.  Of  treason  towards  him  they  thee  accuse:" 
Thy  fame  and  greatness  gives  their  malice  ground. 

Must.  Good  world,  where  it  is  danger  to  be  good  ! 
\>  t  grudge  I  not  power  of  myself  to  power  : 
This  baseness  only  in  mankind  I  blame, 
That  indignation  should  give  laws  to  fame. 
Show  me  the  truth. To  what  rules  am  I  bound  ? 

Priest.  No  man  commanded  is  by  God  to  die, 
As  long  as  he  may  persecution  fly. 

Must.  To  fly,  hath  scorn, it  argues  guiltiness, 

Inherits  fear,  weakly  abandons  friends, 

Gives  tyrants  fame,  takes  honor  from  distress 

Death  do  thy  worst !  thy  greatest  pains  have  end. 

Priest.  Mischief  is  like  the  cockatrice's  eyes, 
Sees  first,  and  kills ;  or  is  seen  first,  and  dies. 
Fly  to  thy  strength,  which  makes  misfortune  vain. 
Rossa  intends  thy  ruin.      What  is  she  ? 
Seek  in  her  bowels  for  thy  father  lost : 
Who  can  redeem  a  king  with  viler  cost  ? 

Must.  O  false  and  wicked  colors  of  desire  ! 
Eternal  bondage  unto  him  that  seeks 
To  be  possest  of  all  things  that  he  likes  ! 
Shall  I,  a  son  and  subject,  seem  to  dare, 
For  any  selfness,  to  set  realms  on  fire  ; 
Which  golden  titles  to  rebellions  are  ? 
Heli,  even  you  have  told  me,  wealth  was  given 
The  wicked,  to  corrupt  themselves  and  others ; 
Greatness  and  health  to  make  flesh  proud  and  cruel, 
Where  in  the  good,  sickness  mows  down  desire, 
Death  glorifies,  misfortune  humbles. 
Since  therefore  life  is  but  the  throne  of  woe, 
Which  sickness,  pain,  desire,  and  fear  inherit, 
Ever  most  worth  to  men  of  weakest  spirit ; 
Shall  we,  to  languish  in  this  brittle  jail, 
Seek,  by  ill  deeds,  to  shun  ill  destiny  ; 
And  so,  for  toys,  lose  immortality  ? 


MUSTAPH  \.  "S3 


Priest.  Fatal  necessity  is  never  known 
Until  it  strike  :  and  till  that  blow  be  come, 
Who  falls  is  by  false  visions  overthrown. 

Must.  Blasphemous  love  !  safe  conduct  of  the  ill  ! 
What  power  hath  given  man's  wickedness  such  skill  ? 

Priest.   Ah  servile  man  !   how  arc  your  thoughts  bewitch'd 
With  hopes  and  fears,  the  price  of  your  subjection, 
That  neither  sense  nor  time  can  make  you  see, 
The  art  of  power  will  leave  you  nothing  free ! 

Must.  Is  it  in  us  to  rule  a  Sultan's  will  ? 

Priest.   We  made  them  first  for  good,  and  not  for  ill. 

Must.  Our  Gods  they  are,  their  God  remains  above. 
To  think  against  anointed  power  is  death. 

Priest.   To  worship  tyrants  is  no  work  of  faith. 

Must.   'Tis  rage  of  follv  that  contends  with  fate. 

Priest.  Yet  hazard  something  to  preserve  the  state. 

Must.   Sedition  wounds  what  should  preserved  be. 

Priest.  To  wound  power's  humors,  keeps  their  honors  free. 

Must.   Admit  this  true :  what  sacrifice  prevails  ? 

Priest.   Force  the  petition  is  that  never  fails. 

Must.   Where  then  is  nature's  place  for  innocence? 

Priest.  Prosperity,  that  never  makes  offence. 

Must.   Hath  destiny  no  wheels  but  mere  occasion  ? 

Priest.  Could  east  upon  the  west  else  make  invasion  ? 

Must.  Confusion  follows  where  obedience  leaves. 

Priest.  The  tyrant  only  that  event  deceives. 

Must.   And  are  the  ways  of  truth  and  honor  such  ? 

Priest.  Weakness  doth  ever  think  it  owes  too  much. 

Must.  Hath  fame  her  glorious  colors  out  of  fear  ? 

Priest.   What  is  the  world  to  him  that  is  not  there  ? 

Must.  Tempt  me  no  more.     Good-will  is  then  a  pain, 
When  her  words  beat  the  heart  and  cannot  enter. 
I  constant  in  my  counsel  do  remain, 
And  more  lives  for  my  own  life  will  not  venture. 
My  fellows,  rest :  our  Alcoran  doth  bind. 
That  I  alone  should  first  my  father  find. 


54  ENGLISH  DRAMATIC  POETS. 


A  Messenger  enters. 

Messenger.  Sire,  by  our  lord's  commandment,  here  I  wait, 
To  guide  you  to  his  presence, 
\\  here,  like  a  king  and  father,  he  intends 
To  honor  and  acquaint  you  with  his  ends. 

Must.  Heli,  farewell,  all  fates  are  from  above 
Chain'd  unto  humors  that  must  rise  or  fall. 
Think  what  we  will :  men  do  but  what  they  shall. 

JLchmat  describes  the  manner  of  Mustapha's  Execution  to  Zanger 

Achmat.     Zanger. 

Achm.  When  Solyman,  by  cunning  spite 
Of  Rossa's  witchcrafts,  from  his  heart  had  banish'd 
Justice  of  kings,  and  lovingness  of  fathers, 
To  wage  and  lodge  such  camps  of  heady  passions, 
As  that  sect's  cunning  practices  could  gather ; 
Envy  took  hold  of  worth  :  doubt  did  misconstrue  ; 
Renown  was  made  a  lie,  and  yet  a  terror  : 
Nothing  could  calm  his  rage,  or  move  compassion  : 
Mustapha  must  die.     To  which  end  fetch'd  he  was, 
Laden  with  hopes  and  promises  of  favor. 
So  vile  a  thing  is  craft  in  every  heart, 
As  it  makes  power  itself  descend  to  art. 
While  Mustapha,  that  neither  hoped  nor  feared, 
Seeing  the  storms  of  rage  and  danger  coming, 
Yet  came  ;  and  came  accompanied  with  power. 
But  neither  power,  which  warranted  his  safety, 
Nor  safety,  that  makes  violence  a  justice, 
Could  hold  him  from  obedience  to  this  throne  : 
A  gulph,  which  hath  devoured  many  a  one. 

Zang.  Alas  !  could  neither  truth  appease  his  fury, 
Nor  his  unlook'd  humility  of  coming, 
Nor  any  secret-witnessing  remorses  ? 
Can  nature  from  herself  make  such  divorces  ? 
Tell  on,  that  all  the  world  may  rue  and  wonder. 

Achm.  There  is  a  place  environed  with  trees, 
Upon  whose  shadow'd  centre  there  is  pitch'd 


MUSTAPHA.  55 


A  large  embroider'd  sumptuous  pavilion  ; 

The  stately  throne  of  tyranny  and  murder ', 

Where  mighty  men  are  slain,  before  they  know 

That  they  to  other  than  to  honor  go. 

Mustapha  no  sooner  to  tin    port  did  come 

But  hither  he  is  sent  for  and  conducted 

By  six  slave  eunuchs,  either  taught  to  color 

Mischief  with  reverence,  or  forced,  by  nature, 

To  reverence  true  virtue  in  misfortune. 

While  Mustapha,  whose  heart  was  now  resolved, 

Not  fearing  death,  which  he  might  have  prevented  ; 

Nor  craving  life,  which  he  might  well  have  gotten, 

If  he  would  other  duties  have  forgotten  ; 

Yet  glad  to  speak  his  last  thoughts  to  his  father, 

Desired  the  eunuchs  to  entreat  it  for  him. 

They  did  ;   wept  they,  and  kneeled  to  his  father. 

But  bloody  rage  that  glories  to  be  cruel, 

And  jealousy  that  fears  she  is  not  fearful, 

Made  Solyman  refuse  to  hear,  or  pity. 

He  bids  them  haste  their  charge  :  and  bloody-eyed 

Behold  his  son.  while  he  obeying  died. 

Zang.   How  did  that  doing  heart  endure  to  suffer  ? 
Tell  on. 

Quicken  my  powers,  hardened  and  dull  to  good, 
Which,  yet  unmoved,  hear  tell  of  brother's  blood. 

Achm.  While  these  six  eunuchs  to  this  charge  appointed 
(Whose  hearts  had  never  used  their  hands  to  pity, 
Whose  hands,  now  only,  trembled  to  do  murder) 
With  reverence  and  fear  stood  still  amazed; 
Loth  to  cut  off  such  worth,  afraid  to  save  it : 
Mustapha,  with  thoughts  resolved  and  united, 
Bids  them  fulfil  their  charge  and  look  no  further. 
Their  hearts  afraid  to  let  their  hands  be  doing, 
The  cord,  that  hateful  instrument  of  murder, 

.  lifting  up  let  fall,  and  falling  lift  it : 
Each  sought  to  help,  and  helping  hinder'd  other. 
Till  Mustapha,  in  haste  to  be  an  angel, 
With  heavenly  smiles,  and  quiet  words,  foreshows 


56  ENGLISH   DRAMATIC  POETS. 


rhe  joy  and  peace  of  those  souls  where  he  goes. 
His  last  words  were  ;  "O  father  now  forgive  me  ; 
"  Forgive  them  too  that  wroughl  my  overthrow  : 
'■  L( ;  in\  grave  never  minister  offences. 

r  since  nn  father  coveteth  my  death, 
■•  Behold  with  joy  1  offer  him  my  breath." 
The  eunuchs  roar:  Solyman  his  rage  is  glutted  : 
His  thoughts  divine  of  vengeance  for  this  murder  : 
Rumor  ilies  up  and  down  :  the  people  murmur  : 
Sorrow  gives  laws  before  men  know  the  truth: 
Fear  prophecieth  aloud,  and  threatens  ruth. 

Hasten  describes  to  Jlchmat  the  popular  Fury  u-hich  followed  upon  the 

Exec  ution  of  -Mwtaph  a. 

R.OSTEN*.       ACHMAT. 

Ros.   When  Musiapha  was  by  the  eunuchs  strangled, 
Forthwith  his  camp  grew  doubtful  of  his  absence  : 
The  guard  of  Solyman  himself  did  murmur  : 
People  began  to  search  their  prince's  counsels: 
Fury  gave  laws  :  the  laws  of  duty  vanisht. 
Kind  fear  of  him  the}'  lov'd  self-fear  had  banisht. 
Tlio  headlong  spirits  were  the  heads  that  guided  : 
He  that  most  disobeyed,  was  most  obeyed. 
Fury  so  suddenly  became  united, 
As  while  her  forces  nourished  confusion, 
Confusion  seem'd  with  discipline  delighted. 
Towards  Solyman  they  run  :  and  as  the  waters, 
That  meet  with  banks  of  snow,  makes  snow  groAV  water: 
So,  even  those  guards,  that  stood  to  interrupt  them, 
<  live  easy  passage,  and  pass  on  amongst  them. 
Solyman,  who  saw  this  storm  of  mischief  coming, 
Thinks  absence  his  best  argument  unto  them  : 
Retires  himself,  and  sends  me  to  demand, 
Whal  they  demanded,  or  what  meant  their  coming? 
I  speak  :  they  cry'd  for  Mustapha  and  Achmat. 
Some  bid  away  :  sonic  kill  :   some  save  ;   some  hearken. 
Those  that  cried  save,  were  those  that  sought  to  kill  me. 
Who  cried  hark,  were  those  that  first  brake  silence  : 


MUSTAPHA.  r>7 


They  held  that  bade  me  go.     Humility  was  guilty  ; 
Words  were  reproach;  silence  in  me  was  scornful  ; 
They  answer'd  ere  they  ask'd  ;  assured,  and  doubted. 
I  fled  ;  their  fury  follow 'd  to  destroy  me  : 
Fury  made  haste;  haste  multiplied  their  fury  ; 
Each  would  do  all ;  none  would  give  place  to  other. 
The  hindmost  strake  ;  and  while  the  foremost  lifted 
Their  arms  to  strike,  each  weapon  hinder'd  other  : 
Their  running  let  their  strokes,  strokes  let  their  running. 
Desire,  mortal  enemy  to  desire, 
Made  them  that  sought  my  life,  gi\  unto  me. 

[These  two  Tragedies  of  Lord  Brooke  might  with  more  propriety  have 
heen  termed  political  treatises,  than  plays.     Their  author  has  strangely  con- 
d  tn  make  passion,  character  and  interest,  of  the  highest  order  subser- 
vient to  the  expression  i  f  state  dogmas  and  mysteries.     He  is  nine  parts 
Machiavel  and  Tacitus,  for  one  part  So]  >r  Seneca.     In  this  writer's 

estimate  of  the  faculties  of  his  own  mind,  the  understanding  must  have 
held  a  most  tyrannical  tinence.      Whether  we  look  into  his  plays,  or 

his  most  passionate  love-poems,  we  shall  find  all  frozen  and  made  rigid  with 
intellect.  The  finest  movements  of  the  human  heart,  the  utmost  grandeur 
of  which  the  soul  is  capable,  are  essentially  comprised  in  the  actions  and 
speeches  of  Cselica  and  Camena.  Shakspeare,  who  seems  to  have  had  a 
peculiar  delight  in  contemplating  womanly  perfection,  whom  for  his  many 
sweet  images  of  female  excellence  all  women  are  in  an  especial  manner 
bound  to  love,  has  not  raised  the  ideal  of  the  female  character  higher  than 
Lord  Brooke  in  these  two  women  lias  done.  But  it  requires  a  study  equiva- 
lent to  the  learning  of  a  new  language  to  understand  their  meaning  when 
they  speak.     It  is  indeed  hard  to  hit: 

Much  like  thy  riddle,  Samson,  in  one  day 
Or  seven  though  one  should  musing  sit. 

It  is  as  if  a  being  of  pure  intellect  should  take  upon  him  to  express  the 
emotions  of  our  sensitive  natures.  There  would  be  all  knowledge,  but 
sympathetic  expression  would  be  wanting.] 


r>S  ENGLISH  DRAW  \TIC  POETS. 


THK  CASE   I      AL1  .    BE*V.  JONSON. 

i  Humor  to  b  ■■  >.d. 

..  Phcenixella,  Sister  :  their  Mother  hemg  lately  dead 

Aur.  Room  for  a  case  of  matrons,  color'd  black  : 
How  motherly  my  mother's  d<ath  liath  marie  us! 
I  would  1  had  sonic  girls  now  to  bring  up  ; 

0  I  could  make  a  wench  so  virtuous. 

She  should  say  grace  to  every  bit  of  meat, 
And  gape  no  wider  than  a  wafer's  thickness, 
And  she  should  make  French  court'sies  so  most  low 
That  every  touch  should  turn  her  over  backward. 

Phoen.  Sister,  these  words  become  not  your  attire, 
Nor  your  estate  ;  our  virtuous  mother's  death 
Should  print  more  deep  effects  of  sorrow  in  us. 
Than  may  be  worn  out  in  so  little  time. 

Aur.  Sister,  i'  faith  you  take  too  much  tobacco, 
It  makes  you  black  within  as  you  're  without. 
What,  true-stitch  sister,  both  your  sides  alike  ! 
Be  of  a  slighter  work  ;   for,  of  my  word, 
You  shall  be  sold  as  dear,  or  rather  dearer. 
Will  you  be  bound  to  customs  and  to  rites, 
Shed  profitable  tears,  weep  for  advantage  ; 
Or  else  do  all  things  as  you  are  inclined  ? 
Eat  when  your  stomach  serves,  saith  the  physician, 
Not  at  eleven  and  six.     So,  if  your  humor 
Be  now  affected  with  this  heaviness, 
Give  it  the  reins,  and  spare  not ;  as  I  do 
In  this  my  pleasurable  appetite. 
It  is  Precisianism  to  alter  that, 
With  austere  judgment,  that  is  giv'n  by  nature. 

1  wept  (you  saw)  too,  when  my  mother  died  ; 
For  then  I  found  it  easier  to  do  so, 

And  fitter  with  my  mode,  than  not  to  weep  : 
But  now  'tis  otherwise.     Another  time 
Perhaps  I  shall  have  such  deep  thoughts  of  her, 
That  I  shall  weep  afresh  some  twelvemonth  hence  ; 


THE  CASE  IS  ALTERED.  39 


And  I  will  weep,  if  I  be  so  disposed  ; 
And  put  on  black  as  grimly  then  as  now. — 
Let  the  mind  go  still  with  the  body's  stature: 
Judgment  is  fit  for  judges  ;  give  me  nature. 

Presentiment  of  Treachery,  vanishing  at  the  sight  of  the  person  suspected 
Lord  Paulo  Farneze.     (Speaking  to  himself  of  Angelo.) 

My  thoughts  cannot  propose  a  reason 

Why  I  should  fear  or  faint  thus  in  my  hopes 

Of  one  so  much  endeared  to  my  love  : 

Some  spark  it  is,  kindled  within  the  soul, 

Whose  lighl  yet  breaks  not  to  the  outward  sense, 

That  propagates  this  timorous  suspect. 

His  actions  never  carried  any  force 

Of  change,  or  weakness;  then  I  injure  him, 

In  being  thus  cold-conceited  of  his  faith. 

O  here  he  comes.  [  While  he  speaks  Angelo  enters. 

Angelo.  How  now,  sweet  Lord,  what  :s  the  matter  1 
Paul.  Good  faith,  his  presence  makes  me  half  ashamed 

Of  my  stray'd  thoughts. 

Jaques  {a  Miser)  worships  his  Gold. 

Jac.  Tis  not  to  be  told 
What  servile  villainies  men  will  do  for  gold. 

0  it  began  to  have  a  huge  strong  smell, 
With  lying  so  long  together  in  a  place : 

1  '11  give  it  vent,  it  shall  have  shift  enough  ; 
And  if  the  devil,  that  envies  all  goodness, 
Have  told  them  of  my  gold,  and  where  I  kept  it, 
I  "11  set  his  burning  nose  once  more  a  work 

To  smell  where  I  removed  it.     Here  it  is  ; 

I  '11  hide  and  cover  it  with  this  horse-dung. 

Who  will  suppose  that  such  a  precious  nest 

Is  crown'd  with  such  a  dunghill  excrement? 

In,  my  dear  life,  sleep  sweetly,  my  dear  child, 

Scarce  lawfully  h .■.  gotten, 

And  that  "s  enough.     Rot  all  hands  that  come  near  thee, 

Except  mine  own.      Burn  out  all  eyes  that  see  thee, 


00  ENGLISH   DK  \.\I.\TIC  POETS. 


Except  mine  own.     All  thoughts  of  thee  be  poison 
To  their  enamor'd  hearts,  excepl  mine  own. 
1  11  take  no  leave,  sweet  prince,  great  emperor, 
But  see  thee  every  minute:  king  of  kings, 

I  '11  not  be  rude  to  thee,  and  turn  my  back 

In  going  from  thee,  but  go  backward  out, 

With  my  face  toward  thee,  with  humble  courtesies. 

[The  passion  Cor  wealth  has  worn  out  much  of  its  grossness  by  tract  ol 
time.  Our  ancestors  certainly  conceived  of  money  as  able  to  confer  a  dis- 
tinct gratification  in  itself,  not  alone  considered  simply  as  a  symbol  of 
wealth.     The  oldi  they  introduce  a  miser,  constantly  make 

him  address  his  gold  as  his  mistress;  as  something;  to  be  seen,  felt,  and 
hugged  :  as  capable  of  satisfying  two  of  the  senses  at  least.  The  substitution 
of  a  thin  unsatisfying  medium  for  the  good  old  tangible  gold,  has  made  ava- 
rice quite  a  Platonic  affection  in  comparison  with  the  seeing,  touching,  and 
handling  pleasures  of  the  old  Chrysophilites.  A  bank  note  can  no  more 
satisfy  the  touch  of  a  true  sensualist  in  this  passion,  than  Creusa  could 
return  her  husband's  embrace  in  the  shades. — See  the  Cave  of  Mammon,  in 
Spenser ;  Barabas's  contemplation  of  his  wealth,  in  the  Jew  of  Malta ;  Luke's 
raptures,  in  the  City  Madam,  &c.  Above  all,  hear  Guzman,  in  that  excel- 
lent old  Spanish  Novel,  The  Rogue,  expatiate  on  the  "  ruddy  cheeks 
of  your  golden  Ruddocks,  your  Spanish  Pistolets,  your  plump  and  full-faced 
Portuguese,  and  your  clear-skinn'd  pieces  of  eight  of  Castile,"  which 
he  and  his  fellows  the  beggars  kept  secret  to  themselves,  and  did 
"privately  enjoy  in  a  plentiful  manner."  "For  to  have  them,  for  to  pay 
them  away,  is  not  to  enjoy  them  ;  to  enjoy  them,  is  to  have  them  lying  by 
us,  having  no  other  need  of  them  than  to  use  them  for  the  clearing  of  the 
eye-sight,  and  the  comforting  of  our  senses.  These  we  did  carry  about  with 
us,  sewing  them  in  some  patches  of  our  doublets  near  unto  the  heart,  and 
as  close  to  the  skin  as  we  could  handsomely  quilt  them  in,  holding  them 
to  be  restorative."] 


POETASTER;    OR,   HIS   ARRAIGNMENT.     A   COMICAL    SATYR. 

BY   BEN  JONSON. 

Ovid  bewails  his  hard  condition  in  being  banished  from  Court  and  the 
Society  of  the  Princess  Julia. 

Ovid. 

Banish'd  the  court  ?  let  me  be  banish'd  life, 
Since  the  chief  end  of  life  is  there  concluded. 


POETASTER.  61 


Within  the  court  is  all  the  kingdom  bounded  ; 

And  as  her  sacred  sphere  doth  comprehend 

Ten  thousand  times  so  much,  as  so  much  place 

In  any  part  of  all  the  empire  else, 

So  every  body,  moving  in  her  sphere, 

Contains  ten  thousand  times  as  much  in  him 

As  any  othi-r  her  choice  orb  excludes. 

As  in  a  circle  a  magician,  then, 

Is  safe  against  tho  spirit  he  excites, 

But  out  of  it  is  subject  to  his  rage, 

And  loseth  all  the  virtue  of  his  art, 

So  I,  exil'd  the  circle  of  the  court, 

Lose  all  the  £ood  gifts  that  in  it  I  joy'd. 

No  virtue  current  is,  but  with  her  stamp ; 

And  no  vice  vicious,  blanch'd  with  her  white  hand. 

The  court's  the  abstract  of  all  Rome's  desert, 

And  my  dear  Julia  th'  abstract  of  the  court. 

Methinks,  now  I  come  near  her,  I  respire 

Some  air  of  that  late  comfort  I  receiv'd  : 

And  while  the  evening,  with  her  modest  veil, 

Gives  leave  to  such  poor  shadows  as  myself 

To  steal  abroad,  I,  like  a  heartless  ghost, 

Without  the  living  body  of  my  love, 

Will  here  walk,  and  attend  her.     For  I  know 

Not  far  from  hence  she  is  imprison'd, 

And  hopes  of  her  strict  guardian  to  bribe 

So  much  admittance,  as  to  speak  to  me, 

And  cheer  my  fainting  spirits  with  her  breath. 

Julia  appears  above  at  her  Chamber-window. 

Jul.  Ovid  !  my  love  ! 

Ovid.   Here,  heav'nly  Julia. 

Jul.  Here  !  and  not  here  !  O  how  that  word  doth  play 
With  both  our  fortunes,  differing,  like  ourselves  ; 
But  one,  and  yet  divided,  as  opposed ; 
I  high,  thou  low  !  0  this  our  plight  of  place 
Doubly  presents  the  two  lets  of  our  love, 
Local  and  ceremonial  height  and  lowness  ; 


K.XCUSH   DRAMATIC  POETS. 


Both  ways.  I  am  too  high,  and  thou  too  low. 

Our  minds  are  even,  yet  :  O  why  should  our  bodies. 

That  are  their  slaves,  be  so  without  their  rule? 

1  "11  cast  myself  down  to  thee  ;   if  I  die, 

1  "11  ever  live  with  thee  :  no  height  of  birth, 

Of  place,  of  duty,  or  of  cruel  power, 

Shall  keep  me  from  thee  ;  should  my  father  lock 

This  body  up  within  a  tomb  of  brass, 

Vet  I'll  be  with  thee.     If  the  forms,  I  hold 

Now  in  my  soul,  be  made  one  substance  with  it ; 

That  soul  immortal;  and  the  same  'tis  now; 

Death  cannot  raze  the  cfTects  she  now  retaineth  : 

And  then  may  she  be  anywhere  she  will. 

The  souls  of  parents  rule  not  children's  souls  ; 

When  death  sets  both  in  their  dissolv'd  estates, 

Then  is  no  child  nor  father  :  then  eternity 

Frees  all  from  any  temporal  respect. 

I  come,  my  Ovid,  take  me  in  thine  arms  ; 

And  let  me  breathe  my  soul  into  thy  breast. 

Ovid.  O  stay,  my  love ;  the  hopes  thou  dost  conceive 
Of  thy  quick  death,  and  of  thy  future  life, 
Are  not  authentical.     Thou  choosest  death, 
So  thou  might'st  joy  thy  love  in  th'  other  life, 
But  know,  my  princely  love,  when  thou  art  dead, 
Thou  only  must  survive  in  perfect  soul  ; 
And  in  the  soul  are  no  affections  : 
We  pour  out  our  affections  with  our  blood ; 
And  with  our  blood's  affections  fade  our  loves. 
No  life  hath  love  in  such  sweet  state  as  this ; 
No  essence  is  so  dear  to  moody  sense, 
As  flesh  and  blood,  whose  quintessence  is  sense. 
Beauty,  compos'd  of  blood  and  flesh,  moves  more, 
And  is  more  plausible  to  blood  and  flesh, 
Than  spiritual  beauty  can  be  to  the  spirit. 
Such  apprehension  as  we  have  in  dreams 
(When  sleep,  the  bond  of  senses,  locks  them  up) 
Such  shall  we  have  when  death  destroys  them  quite. 
If  love  he  then  thy  object,  change  not  life  ; 


POETASTER.  63 


Live  high  and  happy  still ;   I  still   below, 
Close  with  my  fortunes,  in  thy  height  shall  joy. 

Jul.   Ay  me,  that  virtue,  whose  brave  eagle's  wings 
With  every  stroke  blow  stars  in  burning  hdaven, 
Should  like  a  swallow  (preying  toward  storms) 
Fly  close  to  earth  ;  and,  with  an  eager  plume 
Pursue  those  objects  which  none  else  can  see, 
But  seem  to  all  the  world  the  empty  air. 
Thus  thou,  poor  Ovid,  and  all  virtuous  men, 
Must  prey  like  swallows  on  invisible  food  ; 
Pursuing  flies,  or  nothing  ;  and  thus  love, 
And  every  worldly  fancy,  is  transpos'd 
By  worldly  tyranny  to  what  plight  il  list. 
0,  father,  since  thou  gav'sl  me  nol  mj  mind. 
Strive  not  to  rule  it  ;  take  but  what  thou  gav'st 
To  thy  disposure  :  thy  affections 
Rule  not  in  me ;  I  must  bear  all  my  griefs ; 
Let  me  use  all  my  pleasures  :  Virtuous  love 
Was  never  scandal  to  a  goddess'  state. 
But  he  's  inflexible  !  and,  my  dear  love, 
Thy  life  may  chance  be  shorten 'd  by  the  length 
Of  my  unwilling  sp  i  ches  to  depart. 
Farewell,  sweet  life:  though  thou  be  .yet  exil'd 
Th'  officious  court,  enjoy  me  amply  still : 
My  soul,  in  this  my  breath,  enters  thine  ears  ; 
And  on  this  turret's  floor  will  I  lie  dead, 
Till  we  may  meet  again.     In  this  proud  height, 
I  kneel  beneath  thee  in  my  prostrate  love, 
And  kiss  the  happy  sands  that  kiss  thy  feet, 
Great  Jove  submits  a  sceptre  to  a  cell  ; 
And  lovers,  ere  they  part,  will  meet  in  hell. 

Ovid.  Farewell  all  company,  and.  if  I  could, 
All  light,  with  thee:  hell's  shade  should  hide  thy  brows, 
Till  thy  dear  beauty's  beams  redeem'd  my  vows. 

Jul.  Ovid:  my  love:  alas!  may  we  not  stay 
A  little  longer,  think'st  thou,  undiscern'd  ? 

Ovid.  For  thine  own  good,  fair  goddess,  do  not  stay. 
Who  would  engage  a  firmament  of  fires, 


64  ENGLISH  DRAMATIC  POETS. 


Shining  in  thee,  for  me,  a  falling  star  ? 
Begone,  sweet  life-blood  :  if  I  should  discern 
Thyself  but  touclrd  for  my  sake,  I  should  die. 

Jul.   I  will  begone  then  ;  and  not  hcav'n  itself 
Shall  draw  me  back. 

Ovid.    \  '  t.  Julia,  if  thou  wilt 
A  little  longer  stay. 

Jul.  1  am  content. 

Ovid.  O  mighty  Ovid  !  what  the  sway  of  heav'n 
Could  not  retire,  my  breath  hath  turned  back. 

Jul.  Who  shall  go  first,  my  love  ?  my  passionate  eyes 
Will  not  endure  to  see  thee  turn  from  me. 

Ovid.  If  thou  go  first,  my  soul  will  follow  thee. 

Jul.  Then  we  must  stay. 

Ovid.  Ay  me,  there  is  no  stay 
In  amorous  pleasures.     If  both  stay,  both  die. 
I  hear  thy  father.     Hence,  my  deity,  [Julia  goes  in. 

Fear  forgeth  sounds  in  my  deluded  ears  ; 
I  did  not  hear  him  :   I  am  mad  with  love. 
There  is  no  spirit,  under  heav'n,  that  works 
With  such  illusion  :  yet.  such  witchcraft  kill  me, 
Ere  a  sound  mind,  w  ithout  it.  save  my  life. 
Here  on  my  knees  I  worship  the  blest  place, 
That  held  my  goddess ;  and  the  loving  air, 
That  clos'd  her  body  in  his  silken  arms. 
Vain  Ovid  !  kneel  not  to  the  place,  nor  air : 
She's  in  thy  heart ;  rise  then,  and  worship  there. 
The  truest  wisdom,  silly  men  can  have, 
Is  dotage  on  the  follies  of  their  flesh. 

Augustus  discourses  with  his  Courtiers  concerning  Poetry. 
C^sar,  Mecenas,  Galltjs,  Tibtjllus,  Horace. 

Equites  Roman i. 

Cos.   We,  that  have  conquer'd  still  to  save  the  conquer'd, 
And  love  to  make  inflictions  fear'd,  not  felt ; 
Griev'd  to  reprove,  and  joyful  to  reward, 
More  proud  of  reconcilement  than  revenge. 


POETASTER.  65 

Resume  into  the  late  state  of  our  love 

Worthy  Cornelius  Gallus  and  Tibullus.* 

You  both  are  gentlemen  ;  you  Cornelius, 

A.  soldier  of  renown,  and  the  first  provost 

That  ever  let  our  Roman  Eagles  fly 

On  swarthy  Egypt,  quarried  with  her  spoils. 

Yet  (not  to  hear  cold  forms,  nor  men's  out-terms, 

Without  the  inward  fires,  and  lives  of  men) 

You  both  have  virlui  s,  shining  through  your  shapes; 

To  show,  your  titles  are  not  writ  on  posts, 

Or  hollow  statues  ;    which  the  best  men  are, 

Without  Promethean  stuffings  reach'd  from  heaven. 

Sweet  Poesy's  sacred  garlands  crown  your  gentry  : 

Which  is,  of  all  the  faculties  on  earth, 

The  most  abstract,  and  perfect,  it'  she  be 

True  born,  and  nurst  with  all  the  sciences. 

She  can  so  mould  Rome,  and  her  monuments, 

W  ithin  the  liquid  marble  of  her  lin 

That  they  shall  stand  fresh  and  miraculous, 

Even  when  they  mix  with  innovating  dust ; 

In  her  sweet  streams  shall  our  brave  Roman  spirits 

Chase,  and  swim  after  death,  with  their  choice  deeds 

Shining  on  their  white  shoulders  ;  and  therein 

Shall  Tyber,  and  our  famous  rivers,  fall 

With  such  attraction,  that  th'  ambitious  line 

Of  the  round  world  shall  to  her  centre  shrink, 

To  hear  their  music.     And  for  these  high  parts, 

Caesar  shall  reverence  the  Pierian  arts. 

Mec.  Your  majesty's  high  grace  to  poesy 
Shall  stand  'gainst  all  the  dull  detractions 
Of  leaden  souls  ;   who  for  the  vain  assumings 
Of  some,  quite  worthless  of  her  sovereign  wreaths, 
Contain  her  worthiest  prophets  in  contempt. 

Gat.   Happy  is  Rome  of  all  earth's  other  states, 
To  have  so  true  and  great  a  president, 
For  her  inferior  spirits  to  imitate. 

*  They  had  offended  the  Emperor  by  concealing  the  love  of  Ovid  for  the 
Princess  Julia 

PART  II.  6 


6fl  ENGLISH   DRAMATIC  POETS. 


As  Caesar  is  ;  who  addeth  to  the  sun 
Influence  and  lustre,  in  increasing  thus 
His  inspirations,  kindling  fire  in  us. 

Hor.  Phoebus  himself  shall  kneel  at  Caesar's  shrine 
And  deck  it  with  bay-garlands  dew'd  with  wine, 
To  quit  the  worship  Caesar  does  to  him : 
Where  other  princes,  hoisted  to  their  thrones 
By  Fortune's  passionate  and  disorder'd  power, 
Sit  in  their  height  like  clouds  before  the  sun, 
Hind'ring  his  comforts  ;  and  (by  their  excess 
Of  cold  in  virtue,  and  cross  heat  in  vice) 
Thunder  and  tempest  on  those  learned  heads, 
Whom  Caesar  with  such  honor  doth  advance. 

Tib.   All  human  business  Fortune  doth  command 
Without  all  order;  and  with  her  blind  hand, 
She,  blind,  bestows  blind  gifts :  that  still  have  nurst, 
They  see  not  who,  nor  how,  but  still  the  worst. 

Cces.  Caesar,  for  his  rule,  and  for  so  much  stutf 
As  fortune  puts  in  his  hand,  shall  dispose  it 
(As  if  his  hand  had  eyes,  and  soul,  in  it) 
With  worth  and  judgment.      Hands  that  part  with  gifts. 
Or  will  restrain  their  use,  without  desert, 
Or  with  a  misery,  numb'd  to  Virtue's  right, 
Work,  as  they  had  no  soul  to  govern  them, 
And  quite  reject  her:  sev'ring  their  estates 
From  human  order.     Whosoever  can, 
And  will  not  cherish  Virtue,  is  no  man, 

Equcs.   Virgil  is  now  at  hand,  imperial  Caesar. 

Cces.  Rome's  honor  is  at  hand  then.     Fetch  a  chair, 
And  set  it  on  our  right-hand  ;   where  'tis  fit, 
Rome's  honor  and  our  own  should  ever  sit. 
Now  he  is  come  out  of  Campania, 
I  doubt  not  he  hath  finish'd  all  his  ^Eneids ; 
Which,  like  another  soul,  I  long  t'  enjoy. 
What  think  you  three  of  Virgil,  gentlemen 
(That  are  of  his  profession  though  ranked  higher), 
Or,  Horace,  what  sayst  thou,  that  art  the  poorest, 
And  likeliest  to  envy  or  to  detract  ? 


POKT.Wi  ER. 


Hor.  Caesar  speaks  after  common  men  in  this, 

To  make  a  difference  of  me  for  my  poorness  : 

As  if  the  filth  of  poverty  sunk  as  deep 

Into  a  knowing  spirit,  as  the  hane 

Of  riches  doth  into  an  ignorant  soul. 

No,  Caesar  ;  they  he  pathless  moorish  minds, 

That  being  once  made  rotten  with  the  dung 

Of  damned  riches,  ever  after  sink 

Beneath  the  steps  of  any  villainy. 

But  knowledge  is  the  nectar,  that  keeps  sweet 

A  perfect  soul,  even  in  this  grave  of  sin  ; 

And  for  my  soul,  it  is  as  free  as  Caesar's : 

For  what  I  know  is  due  I'll  give  to  all. 

He  that  detracts,  or  envies  virtuous  merit, 

Is  still  the  covetous  and  the  ignorant  spirit. 

Cces.  Thanks,  Horace,  for  thy  free  and  wholesome  sharpness 

Which  pleaseth  Caesar  more  than  servile  fawns. 

A  flatter'il  prince  soon  turns  the  prince  of  fools. 
And  for  thy  sake  we'll  put  no  difference  more 
Between  the  great  and  good  for  being  poor. 
Say  then,  loved  Horace,  thy  true  thought  of  Virgil. 

Hor.  T  judge  him  of  a  rectified  spirit, 
By  many  revolutions  of  discourse 
(In  his  bright  reason's  influence)  refined 
From  all  the  tartarous  moods  of  common  men ; 
Bearing  the  nature  and  similitude 
Of  a  right  heavenly  body  ;   most  severe 
In  fashion  and  collection  of  himself: 
And  then  as  clear  and  confident  as  Jove. 

Gal.  And  yet  so  chaste  and  tender  is  his  ear, 
In  suffering  any  syllable  to  pass, 
That  he  thinks  may  become  the  honor'd  name 
Of  issue  to  his  so  examined  self; 
That  all  the  lasting  fruits  of  his  full  merit 
In  his  own  poems,  he  doth  still  distaste  ; 
As  if  his  mind's  piece,  which  he  strove  to  paint, 
Could  not  with  fleshly  pencils  have  her  right. 

Tib.  But  to  approve  his  works  of  sovereign  worth, 


6S  ENGLISH  DRAMATIC  POETS. 


This  observation  (methinks)  more  than  serves  ; 
And  is  not  vulgar.     That  which  he  hath  writ, 
Is  with  such  judgment  labor'd,  and  distill'd 
Through  all  the  needful  uses  of  our  lives, 
That  could  a  man  remember  but  his  lines, 
He  should  not  touch  at  any  serious  point, 
But  he  might  hreathe  his  spirit  out  of  him. 

Ccbs.  You  mean  he  might  repeat  part  of  his  works, 
As  fit  for  any  conference  he  can  use  ? 

Tib.  True,  royal  Csesar. 

Ccbs.  Worthily  observed  : 
And  a  most  worthy  virtue  in  his  works, 
What  thinks  material  Horace  of  his  learning  ? 

Hor.  His  learning  savors  not  the  school-like  gloss, 
That  most  consists  in  echoing  words  and  terms : 
And  soonest  wins  a  man  an  empty  name : 
Nor  any  long,  or  far  fetch'd  circumstance, 
Wrapt  in  the  curious  general'ties  of  arts  ; 
But  a  direct  and  analytic  sum 
Of  all  the  worth  and  first  effects  of  arts. 
And  for  his  poesy,  'tis  so  ramm'd  with  life, 
That  it  shall  gather  strength  of  life,  with  being, 
And  live  hereafter  more  admired  than  now. 

Cces.  This  one  consent,  in  all  your  dooms  of  him, 
And  mutual  loves  of  all  your  several  merits, 
Argues  a  truth  of  merit  in  you  all. 

Virgil  enters. 

See  here  comes  Virgil ;   we  will  rise  and  greet  him  : 
Welcome  to  Caesar,  Virgil.    Csesar  and  Virgil 
Shall  differ  but  in  sound  ;  to  Csesar,  Virgil 
(Of  his  expressed  greatness)  shall  be  made 
A  second  sir-name  ;  and  to  Virgil,  Csesar. 
Where  are  thy  famous  iEneids  ?  do  us  grace 
To  let  us  see,  and  surfeit  on  their  sight. 

Vir.  Worthless  they  are  of  Caesar's  gracious  eyes, 
If  they  were  perfect ;  much  more  with  their  wants  : 
Which  yet  are  more  than  my  time  could  supply. 


POETASTER.  69 


And  could  great  Caesar's  expectation 
Be  satisfied  with  any  other  service, 
I  would  not  show  them. 

Ccrs.  Virgil  is  too  modest ; 
Or  seeks,  in  vain,  to  make  our  longings  more. 
Show  them,  sweet  Virgil. 

Vir.  Then,  in  such  due  fear 
As  fits  presenters  of  great  works  to  Caesar, 
I  humbly  show  them. 

Ccrs.  Let  us  now  behold 
A  human  soul  made  visible  in  life : 
And  more  i  il  in  a  senseless  paper, 

Thau  in  the  sensual  complement  of  kings. 
Read,  read,  thyself,  dear  Virgil  ;   let  not  me 
Profane  one  accent  with  an  untuned  tongue  : 
Best  matter,  badly  shown,  shows  worse  than  bad. 
See  then  this  chair,  of  purpose  set  for  thee, 
To  read  thy  poem  in  ;  refuse  it  not, 
Virtue,  without  presumption,  place  may  take 
Above  best  kings,  whom  only  she  should  make. 

Vir.  It  will  be  thought  a  thing  ridiculous 
To  present  eyes,  and  to  all  future  times 
A  gross  untruth  ;  that  any  poet  (void 
Of  birth,  or  wealth,  or  temporal  dignity), 
Should,  with  decorum,  transcend  Ceesar's  chair. 
Poor  virtue  raised,  high  birth  and  wealth  set  under, 
Crosseth  heav'n's  courses,  and  makes  worldlings  wonder. 

Cas.  The  course  of  heaven,  and  fate  itself,  in  this 
Will  Caesar  cross  ;  much  more  all  worldly  custom. 

Hor.  Custom  in  course  of  honor  ever  errs  : 
And  they  are  best,  whom  fortune  least  prefers. 

Ccps.  Horace  hath  (but  more  strictly)  spoke  our  thoughts. 
The  vast  rude  swinge  of  general  confluence 
Is,  in  particular  ends,  exempt  from  sense: 
And  therefore  reason  (which  in  right  should  bo 
The  special  rector  of  all  harmony) 
Shall  show  we  are  a  man,  distinct  by  it 
From  those,  whom  custom  rapteth  in  her  press. 


7u  ENGLISH  DRAMATIC  POETS. 


Ascend  then,  Virgil ;  and  where  first  by  chance 
We  here  have  turn'd  thy  book,  do  thou  first  read. 

Vir.  Great  Caesar  hath  his  will  :  I  will  ascend." 
'Twere  simple  injury  to  his  free  hand, 
That  sweeps  the  cobwebs  from  un-used  virtue, 
And  makes  her  shine  proportion'd  to  her  worth, 
To  be  more  nice  to  entertain  his  grace, 
Than  he  is  choice  and  liberal  to  afford  it. 

Cces.  Gentlemen  of  our  chamber,  guard  the  doors, 
And  let  none  enter  ;  peace.     Begin,  good  Virgil. 

Virgil  reads  part  of  his  fourth  JEneid. 
Vir.  Meanwhile,  the  skies  'gan  thunder,  &c. 

[This  Roman  Flay  seems  written  to  confute  those  enemies  of  Ben.  Jonson 
in  his  own  days  and  ours,  who  have  said  that  he  made  a  pedantical  use  of 
his  learning.  He  has  here  revived  the  whole  court  of  Augustus,  by  a 
learned  spell.  We  are  admitted  to  the  society  of  the  illustrious  dead.  Vir- 
gil, Horace,  Ovid,  Tibullus,  converse  in  our  own  tongue  more  finely  and 

poetically  than  they  expressed  themselves  in  their  native  Latin. Nothing 

can  be  imagined  more  elegant,  refined,  and  court-like  than  the  scenes  be- 
tween this  Louis  the  Fourteenth  of  Antiquity  and  his  Literati. — The  whole 
essence  and  secret  of  that  kind  of  intercourse  is  contained  therein.  Tiie 
economical  liberality  by  which  greatness,  seeming  to  wave  some  part  of  its 
prerogative,  takes  care  to  lose  none  of  the  essentials ;  the  prudential  liberties 
of  an  inferior  which  flatter  by  commanded  boldness  and  soothe  with  compli- 
mental  sincerity.] 


SEJANUS   HIS  FALL:   A   TRAGEDY.     BY  BEN.  JONSON. 

Sejanus,  the  morning  he  is  condemned  by  the  Senate,  receives  some  tokens 

which  presage  his  death. 

Sejancts.     Pomponius.     Minutitjs.     Terenttus,  &c. 

Ter.  Are  these  things  true  ? 
Min.  Thousands  are  gazing  at  it  in  the  streets. 
Sej.  What 's  that  ? 

Ter.  Minutius  tells  us  here,  my  Lord, 
That  a  new  head  being  set  upon  your  statue, 


SEJANUS  HIS  FALL.  71 


A  rope  is  since  found  wreath'd  about  it !  and 

But  now  a  fiery  meteor  in  the  form 

Of  a  great  ball  was  seen  to  roll  along 

The  troubled  air,  where  yet  it  hangs  unperfect, 

The  amazing  wonder  of  the  multitude. 

Sej.  No  more — 
Send  for  the  tribunes;  we  will  straight  have  up 
More  of  the  soldiers  for  our  guard.     Minutius, 
We  pray  you  go  for  Cotta,  Latiaris, 
Trio  the  consul,  or  what  senators 
You  know  are  sure,  and  ours.     You,  my  good  Natta, 
For  Laco  provost  of  the  watch.     Now,  Satrius, 
The  time  of  proof  comes  on.     Arm  all  our  servants, 
And  without  tumult.     You,  Pomponius, 
Hold  some  good  correspondence  with  the  consul  ; 
Attempt  him,  noble  friend.     These  things  begin 
To  look  like  dangers,  now,  worthy  my  fates. 
Fortune,  I  see  thy  worst :  Let  doubtful  states 
And  things  uncertain  hang  upon  thy  will ; 
Me  surest  death  shall  render  certain  still. 
Yet  why  is  now  my  thought  turn'd  toward  death, 
Whom  fates  have  let  go  on  so  far  in  breath 
Uncheckt  or  unreprov'd  ?     I,  that  did  help 
To  fell  the  lofty  cedar  of  the  world, 
Germanicus  ;  that  at  one  stroke  cut  down 
Drusus  that  upright  elm  ;  wither'd  his  vine  ; 
Laid  Silius  and  Sabinus,  two  strong  oaks, 
Flat  on  the  earth  ;  besides  those  other  shrubs, 
Cordus,  and  Sosia,  Claudia,  Pulchra, 
Furnius,  and  Gallius,  which  I  have  grubb'd  up  ; 
And  since,  have  set  my  axe  so  strong  and  deep 
Into  the  root  of  spreading  Agrippina  ; 
Lopt  off  and  scatter'd  her  proud  branches,  Nero, 
Drusus.  and  Caius  too,  although  replanted : 
If  you  will,  destinies,  that  after  all 
I  faint  now  ere  I  touch  my  period, 
You  are  but  cruel ;  and  I  already  have  done 
Things  great  enough.     All  Rome  hath  been  my  slave; 


72  ENGLISH   DRAMATIC  POETS. 

The  senate  sate  an  idle  looker  on, 

And  witness  of  my  power  :   when  I  have  blush'd 

More  to  command,  than  it  to  sutler ;  all 

The  lathers  have  sate  ready  and  prepar'd 

To  give  me  empire,  temples,  or  their  throats, 

When  I  would  ask  'em;  and  (what  crowns  the  top) 

Rome,  senate,  people,  all  the  world,  have  seen 

Jove  but  my  equal,  Caesar  but  my  second. 

'Tis  then  your  malice,  Fates,  who  (but  your  own) 

Envy  and  fear  to  have  any  power  long  known. 


THE    SAD   SHEPHERD:    OR,    A   TALE    OF    ROBIN    HOOD. 
BY  BEN.  JONSON. 

Aiken,  an  old  Shepherd,  instructs  Robin  Hood's  Men  how  to  find  a 
Witch,  and  how  she  is  to  be  hunted. 

Robin   Hood.     Tuck.     Little   John.     Scarlet.     Scathlock, 
George.     Alken.     Clarion. 

Tuck.  Hear  you  how 
Poor  Tom,  the  cook,  is  taken !  all  his  joints 
Do  crack,  as  if  his  limbs  were  tied  with  points  : 
His  whole  frame  slackens,  and  a  kind  of  rack 
Runs  down  along  the  spondils  of  his  back  ; 
A  gout,  or  cramp,  now  seizeth  on  his  head, 
Then  fall  into  his  feet ;  his  knees  are  lead  ; 
And  he  can  stir  his  either  hand  no  more 
Than  a  deal  stump  to  his  office,  as  before. 

Alk.  He  is  bewitch'd. 

Cla.  This  is  an  argument 
Both  of  her  malice,  and  her  power,  we  see. 

Alk.  She  must  by  some  device  restrained  be, 
Or  she  '11  go  far  in  mischief. 

Rob.  Advise  how, 
Sage  shepherd  ;   we  shall  put  it  straight  in  practice. 

Alk.  Send  forth  your  woodmen  then  into  the  walks, 
Or  let  them  prick  her  footing  hence  :  a  witch 


SAD  SHEPHERD.  73 


Is  sure  a  creature  of  melancholy, 

And  will  be  found,  or  sitting  in  her  fourm, 

Or  else  at  relief,  like  a  hare. 

Cla.  You  speak, 
Aiken,  as  if  you  knew  the  sport  of  witch-hunting, 
Or  starting  of  a  hag. 

Rob.  Go,  Sirs,  about  it, 
Take  George  here  with  you,  he  can  help  to  find  her. 

John.  Rare  sport,  I  swear,  this  hunting  of  the  witch 
Will  make  us. 

Scar.  Let 's  advise  upon  't,  like  huntsmen. 

Geo.  An  we  can  spy  her  once,  she  is  our  own. 

Scalh.  First  think  which  way  she  fourmeth,  on  what  wind 
Or  north,  or  south. 

Geo.  For,  as  the  shepherd  said, 
A  witch  is  a  kind  of  hare. 

Scath.  And  marks  the  weather, 
As  the  hare  does. 

John.   Where  shall  we  hope  to  find  her  1 

Alk.  Know  you  the  witches  dell  ? 

Scar.  No  more  than  I  do  know  the  walks  of  hell. 

Alk.   Within  a  gloomy  dimble  she  doth  dwell, 
Down  in  a  pit  o'er  grown  with  brakes  and  briars, 
Close  by  the  ruins  of  a  shaken  abbey, 
Torn  with  an  earthquake  down  unto  the  ground, 
'Mongst  graves,  and  grots,  near  an  old  charnel  house, 
Where  you  shall  find  her  sitting  in  her  fourm, 
As  fearful,  and  melancholic,  as  that 
She  is  about ;   with  caterpillars'  kells, 
And  knotty  cobwebs,  rounded  in  with  spells. 
Thence  she  steals  forth  to  relief,  in  the  fogs, 
And  rotten  mists,  upon  the  fens  and  bogs, 
Down  to  the  drowned  lands  of  Lincolnshire  ; 
To  make  ewes  cast  their  lambs,  swine  eat  their  farrow  ! 
The  house-wife's  tun  not  work,  nor  the  milk  churn  ! 
Writhe  child ivii's  wrists,  and  suck  their  breath  in  sleep  I 
Get  vials  of  their  blood  !  and  where  the  sea 
Casts  up  his  slimy  ooze,  search  for  a  weed 


74  ENGLISH  DRAMATIC  POETS. 


To  open  locks  with,  and  to  rivet  charms, 
Planted  about  her,  in  the  wicked  seat 
Of  all  her  mischiefs,  which  are  manifold. 

John.  I  wonder  such  a  story  could  be  told 
Of  her  dire  deeds. 

Geo.  I  thought  a  witches  banks 
Had  enclosed  nothing  but  the  merry  pranks 
Of  some  old  woman. 

Scar.  Yes,  her  malice  more. 

Scath.  As  it  would  quickly  appear,  had  we  the  store 
Of  his  collects. 

Geo.   Aye,  this  good  learned  man 
Can  speak  her  right. 

Scar.  He  knows  her  shifts  and  haunts. 

All:.  And  all  her  wiles  and  turns.     The  venom'd  plants 
"\\  herewith  she  kills  !  where  the  sad  mandrake  grows, 
Whose  groans  are  deathful !  the  dead  numbing  night-shade  ! 
The  stupifying  hemlock  !  adder 's-tongue, 
And  martegan  !  the  shrieks  of  luckless  owls, 
\A  e  'hear !  and  croaking  night-crows  in  the  air  ! 
Green-bellied  snakes  !  blue  fire-drakes  in  the  sky  ! 
And  giddy  flitter-mice  with  leather  wings  ! 
The  scaly  beetles,  with  their  habergeons 
That  make  a  humming  murmur  as  they  fly  ! 
There,  in  the  stocks  of  trees,  white  fays  do  dwell, 
And  span-long  elves  that  dance  about  a  pool, 
With  each  a  little  changeling  in  their  arms ! 
The  airy  spirits  play  with  falling  stars, 
And  mount  the  sphere  of  fire,  to  kiss  the  moon  ! 
While  she  sits  reading  by  the  glow-worm's  light, 
Or  rotten  wood,  o'er  which  the  worm  hath  crept, 
The  baneful  schedule  of  her  noccnt  charms, 
And  binding  characters,  through  which  she  wounds 
Her  puppets,  the  Sigilla  of  her  witchcraft. 
All  this  1  know,  and  I  will  find  her  for  you  ; 
And  show  you  her  silting  in  her  fourm  ;  I  '11  lay 
My  hand  upon  her ;  make  her  throw  her  scut 
Along  her  back,  when  she  doth  start  before  us. 


CATILINE.  75 


But  you  must  give  her  law  ;  and  you  shall  see  her 
Make  twenty  leaps  and  doubles,  cross  the  paths, 
And  then  squat  down  I  us. 

John.  Crafty  croan, 
I  long  to  be  al  the  sport,  and  to  report  it. 

Scar.   We  "I!  make  this  huntin  le  witch  as  famous, 

As  any  other  blast  of  venery. 

Geo.   If  we  could  come  to  see  her,  cry  .to  haw  once — 

Alk.  That  I  do  promise,  or  I  '111  no  good  hag-finder. 


CATILINE  HIS  CONSPIRACY  :  A  TRAGEDY. 
BY  BEN.  JONSON. 

The  morning  of  the  Conspiracy. — Lentulus,   Cethegus,   and    Catiline 
meet,  before  the  other  Conspiratois  are  ready. 

Lent.  It  is  methinks  a  morning  full  of  fate, 
It  riseth  slowly,  as  her  sullen  car 
Had  all  the  weights  of  sleep  and  death  hung  at  it. 
She  is  not  rosy-finger'd,  but  swoln  black. 
Her  face  is  like  a  water  turn'd  to  blood, 
And  her  sick  head  is  bound  about  with  clouds, 
As  if  she  threatened  night  ere  noon  of  day. 
It  does  not  look  as  it  would  have  a  hail 
Or  health  wish'd  in  it,  as  on  other  morns. 

Cet.  Why,  all  the  fitter,  Lentulus  :  our  coming 
Is  not  for  salutation  :  we  have  business. 

Cat.  Said  nobly,  brave  Cethegus.     Where's  Autronius  ? 

Cet.  Is  he  not  come  ? 

Cat.  Not  here. 

Cet.  Not  Vargunteius  ? 

Cat.  Neither. 

Cet.  A  fire  in  their  beds  and  bosoms, 
That  so  well  serve  their  sloth  rather  than  virtue. 
They  are  no  Romans,  and  at  such  high  need 
As  now 

Lent.   Both  they,  Longinus,  Lecca,  Curius, 


76  ENGLISH  DRAMATIC  POETS. 

Fulvius,  Gabinus,  gave  me  word  last  night, 
By  Lucius  Bestia,  they  would  all  be  here, 
And  early. 

Cet.  Yes  !  as  you,  had  I  not  calFd  you. 
Come,  we  all  sleep,  and  are  mere  dormice ;  flies 
A  little  less  than  dead  :  more  dulness  hangs 
On  us  than  on  the  morn.     We  're  spirit  bound, 
In  ribs  of  ice  ;  our  whole  bloods  are  one  stone  : 
And  honor  cannot  thaw  us,  nor  our  wants, 
Though  they  burn  hot  as  fevers  to  our  states. 

Cat.  I  muse  they  would  be  tardy  at  an  hour 
Of  so  great  purpose. 

Cet.  If  the  gods  had  call'd 
Them  to  a  purpose,  they  would  just  have  come 
With  the  same  tortoise  speed  ;  that  are  thus  slow 
To  such  an  action,  which  the  gods  will  envy  ; 
As  asking  no  less  means  than  all  their  powers 
Conjoin'd  to  effect.     I  would  have  seen  Rome  burnt 
By  this  time,  and  her  ashes  in  an  urn  : 
The  kingdom  of  the  senate  rent  asunder  : 
And  the  degenerate  talking  gown  run  frighted 
Out  of  the  air  of  Italy. 

Cat.  Spirit  of  men, 
Thou  heart  of  our  great  enterprise,  how  much 
I  love  these  voices  in  thee  ! 

Cet.  O  the  days 
Of  Sylla's  sway,  when  the  free  sword  took  leave 
To  act  all  that  it  would  ! 

Cat.  And  was  familiar 
With  entrails,  as  our  augurs 

Cet.  Sons  kill'd  fathers, 
Brothers  their  brothers 

Cat.  And  had  price  and  praise  : 
All  hate  and  license  giv'n  it ;  all  rage  reins. 

Cet.  Slaughter  bestrid  the  streets,  and  stretch'd  himself 
To  seem  more  huge :  whilst  to  his  stained  thighs 
The  gore  he  drew  flow'd  up,  and  carried  down 
Whole  heaps  of  limbs  and  bodies  through  his  arch. 


CATILINE.  77 


No  age  was  spar'd,  no  sex. 
Cat.  Nay,  no  degree- 


Cet.  Not  infants  in  the  porch  of  life  were  free. 
The  sick,  the  old,  that  could  but  hope  a  day- 
Longer  by  nature's  bounty,  not  let  stay. 
Virgins  and  widows,  matrons,  pregnant  wives, 
All  died. 

Cat.  'Twas  crime  enough  that  they  had  lives. 
To  strike  but  only  those  that  could  do  hurt, 
Was  dull  and  poor.     Some  fell,  to  make  the  number; 
As  some,  the  prey. 

Cet.  The  rugged  Charon  fainted, 
And  ask'd  a  navy  rather  than  a  boat, 
To  ferry  over  the  sad  world  that  came  : 
The  maws  and  dens  of  beasts  could  not  receive 
The  bodies  that  those  souls  were  frighted  from  ; 
And  even  the  graves  were  fill'd  with  men  yet  living, 
Whose  flight  and  fear  had  rnix'd  them  with  the  dead. 

Cat.  And  this  shall  be  again,  and  more,  and  more, 
Now  Lentulus,  the  third  Cornelius, 
Is  to  stand  up  in  Rome. 

Lrnt.  Nay,  urge  not  that 
Is  so  uncertain. 

Cat.  How  ! 

Lent.  I  mean,  not  clear'd  ; 
And  therefore  not  to  be  reflected  on. 

Cat.  The  Sybil's  leaves  uncertain  !  or  the  comments, 
Of  our  grave,  deep,  divining  men,  not  clear! 

Lent.  All  prophecies,  you  know,  suffer  the  torture. 
t.  But  this  already  hath  confess'd,  without ; 
And  so  been  weigh'd,  examin'd,  and  compar'd, 
As  'twere  malicious  ignorance  in  him 
Would  faint  in  the  belief. 

Lent.  Do  you  believe  it  1 

Cat.  Do  I  love  Lentulus,  or  pray  to  see  it  ? 

Lent.  The  augurs  all  are  constant  I  am  meant. 

Cat.  They  had  lost  their  science  else. 

Lent.   Thev  count  from  Cinna 


ENGLISH    DRAMATIC  POETS. 

Cat.  And  Sylla  nexl 'and  so  make  you  the  third ; 

All  that  can  say  the  sun  is  ris'n,  must  think  it. 

Lent.   Men  mark  me  more  of  late  as  I  come  forth  ! 

Cat.  Why,  what  can  they  do  less  1     Cinna  and  Sylla 
Are  set  and  gone  ;  and  \vc  must  turn  our  eyes 
On  him  that  is,  and  shines.     Noble  Cethegus, 
But  view  him  with  me  here  !     He  looks  already 
As  if  he  shook  a  sceptre  o'er  the  senate. 
And  the  aw'd  purple  dropt  their  rods  and  axes. 
The  statues  melt  again,  and  household  gods 
In  groans  confess  the  travails  of  the  city : 
The  very  walls  sweat  blood  before  the  change  ; 
And  stones  start  out  to  ruin,  ere  it  comes. 

Cet.  But  he,  and  we,  and  all,  are  idle  still. 

Lent    I  am  your  creature,  Sergius  ;  and  whate'ei 
The  great  Cornelian  name  shall  win  to  be, 
It  is  not  augury,  nor  the  Sybil's  books 
But  Catiline,  that  makes  it. 

Cat.  I  am  a  shadow 
To  honor'd  Lentulus,  and  Cethegus  here  ; 
Who  are  the  heirs  of  Mars. 


THE  NEW  INN  ;    OR,  THE  LIGHT  HEART.     A  COMEDY. 
BY  BEN.  JONSON. 

Lovel  discovers  to  the  Host  of  the  JVeto  Inn,  his  Love  for  the  Lady  Fran- 
ces, and  his  reasons  for  concealing  his  Passion  from  her. 

Lov.  There  is  no  life  on  earth,  but  being  in  love  ! 
There  are  no  studies,  no  delights,  no  business, 
No  intercourse,  or  trade  of  sense,  or  soul, 
But  what  is  love  !     I  was  the  laziest  creature, 
The  most  unprofitable  sign  of  nothing, 
The  veriest  drone,  and  slept  away  my  life 
Beyond  the  dormouse,  till  I  was  in  love  ! 
And  now  I  can  out-wake  the  nightingale, 
Out-watch  an  usurer,  and  out-walk  him  too, 


NEW  INN.  79 


Stalk  like  a  ghost  that  haunted  'bout  a  treasure  ; 
And  all  that  fancied  treasure,  it  is  love  ! 

Host.  But  is  your  name  Love-ill,  sir,  or  Love-well  ? 
I  would  know  that. 

Lov.  1  do  not  know  it  myself, 
Whether  it  is.     But  it  is  love  hath  been 
The  hereditary  passion  of  our  house, 
My  gentle  host,  and,  as  I  guess,  my  friend  ; 
The  truth  is,  I  have  loved  this  lady  long, 
And  impotently,  with  desire  enough, 
But  no  success :  for  I  have  still  forborne 
To  express  it  in  my  person  to  her. 

Host.  How  then  ? 

Lov.  I  have  sent  her  toys,  verses,  and  anagrams, 
Trials  of  wit,  mere  trifles,  she  has  commended, 
But  knew  not  whence  they  came,  nor  could  she  guess. 

Host.  This  was  a  pretty  riddling  way  of  wooing  ! 

Lov.  I  oft  have  been  too  in  her  company 
And  look'd  upon  her  a  whole  day,  admir'd  her, 
Loved  her,  and  did  not  tell  her  so,  loved  still, 
Look'd  still,  and  loved  ;  and  loved,  and  look'd,  and  sigh'd ; 
But,  as  a  man  neglected,  I  came  off, 
And  unregarded. 

Host.  Could  you  blame  her,  sir, 
When  you  were  silent  and  not  said  a  word  ? 

m 

Lov.  O  but  I  loved  the  more  ;  and  she  might  read  it 
Best  in  my  silence,  had  she  been 

Host.  as  melancholic, 

As  you  are.     Pray  you.  why  would  you  stand  mute,  sir  ? 

Lov.  O  thereon  hangs  a  history,  mine  host. 
Did  you  ever  know  or  hear  of  the  Lord  Beaufort, 
Who  serv'd  so  bravely  in  France  ?     I  was  his  page, 
And,  ere  he  died,  his  friend  !     I  follow'd  him 
First  in  the  wars,  and  in  the  time  of  peace 
1  waited  on  his  studies  ;   which  were  right, 
He  had  no  Arthurs,  nor  no  Rosicleers, 
No  Knights  of  the  Sun,  nor  Amadis  de  Gauls, 
Primalions,  and  Pantagruels,  public  nothings  ; 


•SO  ENGLISH  DRAMATIC  POETS. 

Abortives  of  the  fabulous  dark  cloister, 

Sent  out  to  poison  courts,  and  infest  manners : 

But  great  Achilles',  Agamemnon's  acts, 

Sage  Nestor's  counsels,  and  Ulysses'  sleights, 

Tydides'  fortitude,  as  Homer  wrought  them 

In  his  immortal  fancy,  for  examples 

Of  the  heroic  virtue.     Or,  as  Virgil, 

That  master  of  the  Epic  Poem,  limn'd 

Pious  iEneas,  his  religious  prince, 

Bearing  his  aged  parent  on  his  shoulders, 

Rapt  from  the  flames  of  Troy,  with  his  young  son. 

And  these  he  brought  to  practise  and  to  use. 

He  gave  me  first  my  breeding,  I  acknowledge, 

Then  shower'd  his  bounties  on  me,  like  the  Hours, 

That  open-handed  sit  upon  the  clouds, 

And  press  the  liberality  of  heaven 

Down  to  the  laps  of  thankful  men  !     But  then, 

The  trust  committed  to  me  at  his  death 

Was  above  all,  and  left  so  strong  a  tye 

On  all  my  powers  as  time  shall  not  dissolve, 

Till  it  dissolve  itself,  and  bury  all  : 

The  care  of  his  brave  heir  and  only  son  ! 

Who  being  a  virtuous,  sweet,  young,  hopeful  lord, 

I  lath  cast  his  first  affections  on  this  lady. 

And  though  I  know,  and  may  presume  her  such, 

As.  out  of  humor,  will  return  no  love, 

And  therefore  might  indifferently  be  made 

The  courting-stock  for  all  to  practise  on, 

As  she  doth  practise  on  us  all  to  scorn : 

Yet  out  of  a  religion  to  my  charge, 

And  debt  profess'd,  I  have  made  a  self-decree, 

Ne'er  to  express  my  person  though  my  passion 

Burn  me  to  cinders. 

Love/  in  the  presence  of  the  Lady  Frances,  the  young  Lord  Beaufort,  and 
other  Guests  of  the  New  Inn.  defines  what  Love  is. 

Lov.   Wha<  else 
Is  love,  but  the  most  noble,  pure  affection 


NEW  INN.  8J 


Of  what  is  truly  beautiful  and  fair  ? 
Desire  of  union  with  the  thing  beloved  ? 

Bean.  I  have  read  somewhere,  that  man  and  woman 
Were,  in  the  first  creation,  both  one  piece, 
And  being  cleft  asunder,  ever  since 
Love  was  an  appetite  to  be  rejoin'd. 

Lov.  It  is  a  fable  of  Plato's,  in  his  banquet, 
And  utter'd  there  by  Aristophanes. 

Host.  'Twas  well  remember'd  here,  and  to  good  use. 
But  on  with  your  description  what  love  is. 
Desire  of  union  with  the  thing  beloved. 

Lov.  I  meant  a  definition.     For  I  make 
The  efficient  cause,  what's  beautiful  and  fair. 
The  formal  cause,  the  appetite  of  union. 
The  final  cause,  the  union  itself. 
But  larger,  if  you  '11  have  it,  by  description  : 
It  is  a  flame  and  ardor  of  the  mind, 
Dead  in  the  proper  corps,  quick  in  another's  : 
Transfers  the  lover  into  the  loved. 
That  he,  or  she,  that  loves,  engraves  or  stamps 
The  idea  of  what  they  love,  first  in  themselves: 
Or,  like  to  glasses,  so  their  minds  take  in 
The  forms  of  their  belov'd,  and  them  reflect. 
It  is  the  likeness  of  affections, 
Is  both  the  parent  and  the  nurse  of  love. 
Love  is  a  spiritual  coupling  of  two  souls, 
So  much  more  excellent  as  it  least  relates 
Unto  the  body  ;  circular,  eternal ; 
Not  !i'!'jrn'd,  or  made,  but  born:  And  then,  so  precious, 
As  nought  can  value  it  but  itself.     So  free, 
As  nothing  can  command  it  but  itself. 
And  in  itself  so  round  and  liberal, 
As,  where  it  favors,  it  bestows  itself. 
But  w^  must  take  and  understand  this  love 
Along  still  as  a  name  of  dignity. 
Not  pleasu 

True  love  hath  no  unworthy  thought,  no  light 
Loose  unbecoming  appetite,  or  strain  : 
part  H.  7 


82  NGLISH    DRAMATIC  POETS. 

But  fixed,  constant,  pure,  immutable. 

Beau.  1  relish  ni  iphical   •'  asts  ; 

Give  nic  a  banquet  o'  sense,  like  that  of  Ovid  ; 
\  form,  to  tal  e  the         ;  a  voice,  mine  r-ar  ; 
Pur    aromatics  to  my  scent  ;  a  soft 

i  4h  dainty  hand  to  touch  ;  and,  for  my  taste, 
Ambrosiac  kisses  to  melt  down  the  palate. 

Loi\  They  are  the  earthly,  lower  form  of  lovers, 
Are  only  taken  with  what  strikes  the  senses, 
And  love  by  that  loose  scale.     Altho'  I  grant, 
We  like  what's  fair  and  graceful  in  an  object, 
And  (true)  would  use  it,  in  them  all  we  tend  to, 
Both  of  our  civil  and  domestic  deeds, 
In  ordering  of  an  army,  in  our  style, 
Apparel,  gesture,  building,  or  what  not  1 
All  arts  and  actions  do  affect  their  beauty. 
But  put  the  case,  in  travel  I  may  meet 
Some  gorgeous  structure,  a  brave  frontispiece, 
Shall  I  stay  captive  in  the  outer  court, 
Surpriz'd  with  that,  and  not  advanced  to  know 
Who  dwells  there,  and  inhabiteth  the  house  ? 
There  is  my  friendship  to  be  made,  within  ; 
With  what  can  love  me  again  ;  not  with  the  walls, 
Doors,  windows,  architrabes,  the  frieze,  and  cornice. 
My  end  is  lost  in  loving  of  a  face. 
An  eye,  lip,  nose,  hand,  foot,  or  other  part, 
Whose  all  is  but  a  statue  if  the  mind 
Move  not,  which  only  can  make  the  return. 
The  end  of  love  is,  to  have  two  made  one 
In  will,  and  in  affection,  that  the  minds 
Be  first  inoculated,  not  the  bodies, 
The  body's  love  is  frail,  subject  to  change, 
And  alter  still  with  it :  The  mind's  is  firm, 
One  and  the  same,  proceedeth  first  from  weighing, 
And  well  examining  what  is  fair  and  good ; 
Then  what  is  like  in  reason,  fit  in  manners  ; 
That  breeds  good  will  :  good  will  desire  of  union. 
So  knowledge  first  hegets  henevolence. 


NEW  I XX.  83 


Benevolence  breeds  friendship,  friendship  love  : 
And  where  it  starts  or  steps  aside  from  this, 
It  is  a  mere  degenerate  appetite, 
A  lost,  oblique,  deprav'd  affection, 
And  bears  no  mark  or  character  of  love. 
Nor  do  they  trespass  within  bounds  of  pardon, 
That  giving  way  and  licence  to  their  love, 
Divest  him  of  his  noblest  ornaments, 
Which  are  his  modesty  and  shamefae'dness : 
And  so  they  do,  that  have  unfit  designs 
Upon  the  parties  they  pretend  to  love. 
For  what  's  more  monstrous,  more  a  prodigy, 
Than  to  hear  me  protest  truth  of  affection 
Unto  a  person  that  I  would  dishonor  ? 
And  what's  a  more  dishonor,  than  defacing 
Another's  good  with  forfeiting  mine  own, 
Ami  drawing  on  a  fellowship  of  sin  ? 
From  note  of  which  though  for  a  while  we  may 
Be  both  kept  safe  by  caution,  yet  the  conscience 
Cannot  be  cleans'd.     For  what  was  hitherto 
Call'd  by  the  name  of  love,  becomes  destroy'd 
Then,  with  the  fact ;  the  innocency  lost, 
The  bating  of  affection  soon  will  follow  ; 
And  love  is  never  true  that  is  not  lasting  : 
No  more  than  any  can  be  pure  or  perfect, 
That  entertains  more  than  one  object. 

[These  and  the  preceding  extracts  may  serve  to  show  the  poetical  fancy 
and  elegance  of  mind  of  the  supposed  rugged  old  Bard.  A  thousand  beau- 
tiful passages  might  be  adduced  from  those  numerous  court  masques  and 
entertainments  which  he  was  in  the  daily  habit  of  furnishing,  to  prove  the 
same  thing.  But  they  do  not  come  within  my  plan.  That  which  follows  is 
a  specimen  of  that  talent  for  comic  humor,  and  the  assemblage  of  ludicrous 
es,  on  which  his  reputation  chiefly  rests.  It  may  serve  for  a  variety 
(►fter  so  many  serious  extracts.] 


84  ENGLISH  DRAMATIC  POETS. 


THE  ALCHEMIST:  A  COMEDY.     BY  BEN.  JONSON. 

Epicure  Mammon,  a  Knight,  deceived  by  the  pretensions  of  Subtle  (the 
Alchemist),  glories  in  the  prospect  of  obtaining  the  Philosopher's 
Stone  ;  and  promises  what  rare  things  he  will  do  with  it. 

Mammon.     Surly,  Ms  Friend.     The  Scene,  Subtle's  House. 

Mam.  Come  on,  Sir.     Now  you  set  your  foot  on  shore 
In  novo  orbe.     Here's  the  rich  Peru  ; 
And  there  within,  sir,  are  the  golden  mines, 
Great  Solomon's  Ophir  !     He  was  sailing  to  't 
Three  years,  but  we  have  reached  it  in  ten  months. 
This  is  the  day  wherein  to  all  my  friends 
1  will  pronounce  the  happy  word,  Be  rich. 
This  day  you  shall  be  speclatissimi. 
You  shall  no  more  deal  with  the  hollow  dye, 
Or  the  frail  card.     No  more  be  at  charge  of  keeping 
The  livery  punk  for  the  young  heir,  that  must 
Seal  at  all  hours  in  his  shirt.     No  more, 
If  he  deny,  ha'  him  beaten  to  't,  as  he  is 
That  brings  him  the  commodity.     No  more 
Shall  thirst  of  sattin,  or  the  covetous  hunger 
Of  velvet  entrails  for  a  rude-spun  cloke 
To  be  display'd  at  Madam  Augusta's,  make 
The  sons  of  Sword  and  Hazard  fall  before 
The  golden  calf,  and  on  their  knees  whole  nights 
Commit  idolatry  with  wine  and  trumpets ; 
Or  go  a  feasting  after  drum  and  ensign. 
No  more  of  this.     You  shall  start  up  young  Viceroys, 
And  have  your  punques  and  punquetees,  my  Surly  : 
And  unto  thee  I  speak  it  first,  Be  rich. 
Where  is  my  Subtle  there  ?  within  ho 

Face  answers  from  within. 
Sir, 
He  '11  come  to  you  by  and  by. 
Mam.  That's  his  fire-drake, 
His  Lungs,  his  Zephyrus,  he  that  puffs  his  coals 
Till  he  firk  Nature  up  in  her  own  centre. 


ALCHEMIST.  85 


You  are  not  faithful,  sir.     This  night  I'll  change 

All  that  is  metal  in  thy  house  to  gold : 

And  early  in  the  morning  will  I  send 

To  all  the  plumbers  and  the  pewterers, 

And  buy  their  tin  and  lead  up  ;  and  to  Lothbury, 

For  all  the  copper. 

Sur.  What,  and  turn  that  too  ? 

Mam.  Yes,  and  I'll  purchase  Devonshire  and  Cornwall, 
And  make  them  perfect  Indies  ?     You  admire  now  ? 

Sur.  No,  faith. 

Mam.  But  when  you  see  the  effects  of  the  great  medicine  ! 
Of  which  one  part  projected  on  a  hundred 
Of  Mercury,  or  Venus,  or  the  Moon, 
Shall  turn  it  to  as  many  of  the  Sun  ; 
Nay,  to  a  thousand,  so  ad  infinitum  : 
You  will  believe  me. 

Sur.  Yes,  when  I  see  't,  I  will. 

Mam.  Ha!  why, 
Do  you  think  I  fable  with  you  ?     I  assure  you, 
He  that  has  once  the  flower  of  the  Sun, 
The  perfect  Ruby,  which  we  call  Elixir, 
Not  only  can  do  that,  but  by  its  virtue 
Can  confer  honor,  love,  respect,  long  life, 
Give  safety,  valor,  yea,  and  victory, 
To  whom  he  will.     In  eight  and  twenty  days 
I'll  make  an  old  man  of  fourscore  a  child. 

Sur.  No  doubt ;  he's  that  already. 

Mam.  Nay,  I  mean, 
Restore  his  years,  renew  him  like  an  eagle, 
To  the  fifth  age  ;  make  him  get  sons  and  daughters, 
Young  giants,  as  our  philosophers  have  done 
(The  ancient  patriarchs  afore  the  flood) 
But  taking,  once  a  week,  on  a  knife's  point 
The  quantity  of  a  grain  of  mustard  of  it, 
Become  stout  Marses,  and  beget  young  Cupids. 

Sur.  The  decay'd  vestals  of  Pickt-hatch  would  thank  y 
That  keep  the  fire  alive  there. 

Mam.   ;Tis  tin   s«eret 


86  ENGLISH  DRAMATIC  POETS. 

Of  Nature  naturized  'gainst  all  infections, 

Cures  all  diseases,  coining  of  all  causes; 

A  month's  grief  in  a  day  :  a  year's  in  twelve ; 

And  of  what  age  soever,  in  a  month  : 

Past  all  the  doses  of  your  drugging  doctors. 

I'll  undertake  withal  to  fright  the  plague 

Out  o'  the  kingdom  in  three  months. 

Sur.  And  I'll 
Be  hound,  the  players  shall  sing  your  praises,  then, 
Without  their  poets. 

Mam.  Sir,  I'll  do  't.     Meantime, 
I'll  give  away  so  much  unto  my  man, 
Shall  serve  th'  whole  city  with  preservative 
Weekly  ;  each  house  his  dose,  and  at  the  rate — 

Sur.  As  he  that  built  the  water- work,  does  with  water  ? 

Mam.  You  are  incredulous. 

Sur.  Faith,  I  have  a  humor, 
1  would  not  willingly  be  gull'd.     Your  Stone 
Cannot  transmute  me. 

Mam.  Pertinax  Surly, 
Will  you  believe  antiquity  1     Records  ? 
I'll  show  you  a  book,  where  Moses,  and  his  sister, 
And  Solomon,  have  written  of  the  Art  1 
I,  and  a  treatise  penn'd  by  Adam. 

Sur.  How  ? 

Mam.  Of  the  Philosopher's  Stone,  and  in  High  Dutch. 

Sur.  Did  Adam  write,  Sir,  in  High  Dutch  ? 

Mam.   He  did, 
Which  proves  it  was  the  primitive  tongue. 

Sur.  What  paper  ? 

Mam.  On  cedar-board. 

Sur.  0  that,  indeed,  they  say, 
Will  last  'gainst  worms. 

Mam.  'Tis  like  your  Irish  wood 
'Gainst  cobwebs.     I  have  a  piece  of  Jason's  Fleece  too, 
Which  was  no  other  than  a  book  of  Alchemy, 
Writ  in  large  sheep-skin,  a  good  fat  ram-vellum. 
Such  was  Pythagoras'  Thigh,  Pandora's  Tub, 


ALCHEMIST.  81 


And  all  that  fable  of  Medea's  cha] 

The  manner  of  our  work  :  the  bulls,  our  furnace, 

Still  breathing  fire  :  our  Argent-vive.  the  Dragon  : 

The  Dragon's  teeth,  Mercury  sublimate, 

That  keeps  the  whiteness,  hardness,  and  the  biting : 

And  they  are  gather'd  into  Jason's  helm 

(Th'  Alembick)  and  then  sow'd  in  Mars  his  field, 

And  thence  sublim'd  so  often,  till  they  are  fix'd. 

Both  this,  the  Hesperian  Garden,  Cadmus'  Stcry, 

Jove's  Shower,  the  Boon  of  Midas,  Argus'  Eyes, 

Boccace  his  Demogorgon,  thousands  more, 

All  abstract  riddles  of  our  Stone. 

Face  enters. 

How  now  ? 

Do  we  succeed  ?  is  our  day  come  ?  and  holds  it  ? 

Face.  The  evening  will  set  red  upon  you,  sir ; 
You  have  color  for  it,  crimson  :  the  red  ferment 
Has  done  his  office.     Three  hours  hence  prepare  you 
To  see  projection. 

Mam.   Pertinax,  my  Surly. 
Again  I  say  to  thee  aloud,  Be  rich. 
This  day  thou  shalt  have  ingots,  and  to-morrow 
Give  lords  th'  affront.      Is  it,  my  Zephyrus,  right? 
Blushes  the  Bolt's-head  I 

Face.  Like  a  wench  with  child,  sir, 
That  were  but  now  discover'd  to  her  master. 

Mam.  Excellent  witty  Lungs  !     My  only  care  is, 
Where  to  get  stuff  enough  now,  to  project  on. 
This  town  will  not  half  serve  me. 

Face.  No,  sir  ?  buy 
The  covering  off  o'  churches. 

Mam.  That's  true. 

Face.  Yes. 
Let  'era  stand  bare,  as  do  their  auditory  ; 
Or  cap  'em  new  with  shingles. 

Mam.  No  ;  good  thatch  : 
Thatch  will  lie  light  upon  the  rafters,  Lungs. 


8S  ENGLISH  DRAMATIC  POETS. 

Lungs,  I  will  manumit  thee  from  the  furnace  ; 
1  will  restore  thee  thy  complexion,  Puffe, 
Lost  in  the  embers ;  and  repair  this  brain 
Hurt  with  the  fume  o'  the  metals. 

Face.  I  have  blown,  sir, 
Hard  for  your  worship  ;  thrown  by  many  a  coal, 
When  'twas  not  beech  ;   weigh'd  those  I  put  in,  just, 
To  keep  your  heat  still  even  ;  these  blear'd  eyes 
Have  waked  to  read  your  several  colors,  sir, 
Of  the  pale  citron,  the  green  lyon,  the  crow, 
The  peacock's  tail,  the  plumed  swan 

Mam.  And  lastly, 
Thou  hast  described  the  flower,  the  sanguis  agni? 

Face.  Yes,  sir. 

Mam.   Where's  master? 

Face.  At  his  prayers,  sir,  he, 
Good  man,  he's  doing  his  devotions 
For  his  success. 

Mam.  Lungs,  I  will  set  a  period 
To  all  thy  labors  :  thou  shalt  be  the  master 
Of  my  seraglio.     For  I  do  mean 
To  have  a  list  of  wives  and  concubines 
Equal  with  Solomon,  who  had  the  Stone 
Alike  with  me  :  and  I  will  make  me  a  back 
With  the  Elixir,  that  shall  be  as  tough 
As  Hercules,  to  encounter  fiftv  a  night. 
Thou  art  sure  thou  saw'st  it  blood  ? 

Face.  Both  blood  and  spirit,  sir. 

Mam.  I  will  have  all  my  beds  blown  up  ;  not  stuft 
Down  is  too  hard.     And  then,  mine  oval  room 
Fill'd  with  such  pictures  as  Tiberius  took 
From  Elephantis,  and  dull  Aretine 
But  coldly  imitated.     Then,  my  glasses 
Cut  in  more  subtle  angles,  to  disperse 
And  multiply  the  figures,  as  I  walk 
Naked  between  my  Succubai.     My  mists 
I'll  have  of  perfume,  vapor'd  'bout  the  room, 
To  lose  ourselves  in  ;  and  my  baths,  like  pits 


ALCHEiMIST.  69 


To  fall  into  ;  from  whence  we  will  come  forth, 

And  roll  us  dry  in  gossamour  and  roses. 

(Is  it  arrived  at  Ruby  ?) — Where  I  spy 

A  wealthy  citizen,  or  rich  lawyer, 

Have  a  sublim'd  pure  wife,  unto  that  fellow 

I'll  send  a  thousand  pound  to  be  my  cuckold. 

Face.  And  I  shall  carry  it  ? 

Mam.  No,  I'll  have  no  bawds, 
But  fathers  and  mothers.     They  will  do  it  best, 
Best  of  all  others.     And  my  flatterers 
Shall  be  the  pure  and  gravest  of  divines 
That  I  can  get  for  money.     My  meet  fools, 
Eloquent  burgesses  ;  and  then  my  poets, 
The  same  that  writ  so  subtly  of  the  Fart : 
Whom  I  will  entertain  still  for  that  subject. 
The  few  that  would  s;ive  out  themselves  to  be 
Court  and  town  stallions,  and  each-where  belie 
Ladies,  who  are  known  most  innocent  (for  them) 
Those  will  I  beg,  to  make  me  eunuchs  of: 
And  they  shall  fan  me  with  ten  estrich  tails 
A  piece,  made  in  a  plume,  to  gather  wind. 
We  will  be  brave,  Puffe,  now  we  ha'  the  medicine 
My  meat  shall  all  come  in  in  Indian  shells, 
Dishes  of  Agate  set  in  gold,  and  studded 
With  emeralds,  sapphires,  hyacinths,  and  rubies  : 
The  tongues  of  carps,  dormice,  and  camels'  heels, 
Boil'd  i'  the  spirit  of  Sol,  and  dissolv*d  pearl 
(Apicius'  diet  'gainst  the  epilepsy), 
And  I  will  eat  these  broths  with  spoons  of  amber, 
Headed  with  diamant  and  carbuncle. 
My  foot-boy  shall  eat  pheasants,  calver'd  salmons, 
Knots,  godwits,  lampreys  :  I  myself  will  have 
The  beards  of  barbels  serv'd,  in  stead  of  sallads ; 
Oil'd  mushrooms ;  and  the  swelling  unctuous  paps 
Of  a  fat  pregnant  sow,  newly  cut 
Drest  with  an  exquisite  and  poignant  sauce  : 
For  which.  I'll  say  unto  my  cook,  "  There's  gold, 
Go  forth,  and  be  a  knight." 


90  ENGLISH  DRAMATIC  POETS. 


Face.  Sir,  I'll  go  look 
A  little,  how  it  In  ightens. 

Mi i, n.  Do. — My  shirts 
I'll  have  of  tailata-sarsnet,  soft  and  light 
As  cobwebs  ;  and,  for  all  my  other  raiment, 
It  shall  be  such  as  might  provoke  the  Persian, 
Were  he  to  teach  the  world  riot  anew. 
My  gloves  of  fishes'  and  birds'  skins,  perfum'd 
"With  gums  of  paradise,  and  eastern  air. 

Sur.  And  do  you  think  to  have  the  Stone  with  this  ? 

Mam.  No,  I  do  think  to  have  all  this  with  the  Stone. 

Sur.  Why,  I  have  heard,  he  must  be  homofrugi, 
A  pious,  holy,  and  religious  man, 
One  free  from  mortal  sin,  a  very  virgin 

Mam.  That  makes  it Sir,  he  is  so.     But  I  buy  it. 

My  venture  brings  it  me.     He,  honest  wretch, 
A  notable,  superstitious,  good  soul, 
Has  worn  his  knees  bare,  and  his  slippers  bald, 
With  prayer  and  fasting  for  it :  and,  sir,  let  him 
Do  it  alone,  for  me,  still.     Here  he  comes. 
Not  a  profane  word,  afore  him :   'tis  poison. 

[The  judgment  is  perfectly  overwhelmed  by  the  torrent  of  images,  words, 
and  book-knowledge  with  which  Mammon  confounds  and  stuns  his  incredu- 
lous hearer.  They  come  pouring  out  like  the  successive  strokes  of  Nilus 
They  "  doubly  redouble  strokes  upon  the  foe."  Description  outstrides 
proof.  We  are  made  to  believe  effects  before  we  have  testimony  for  their 
causes  :  as  a  lively  description  of  the  joys  of  heaven  sometimes  passes  for 
an  argument  to  prove  the  existence  of  such  a  place.  If  there  be  no  one 
image  which  rises  to  the  height  of  the  sublime,  yet  the  confluence  and 
assemblage  of  them  r.ll  produces  an  effect  equal  to  the  grandest  poetry. 
Xerxes'  army  that  drank  up  whole  rivers  from  their  numbers  may  stand  for 
single  Achilles  Epicure  Mammon  is  the  most  determined  offspring  of  the 
author.  It  has  the  whole  "matter  and  copy  of  the  father,  eye,  nose,  lip, 
the  trick  of  his  frown."  It  is  just  such  a  swaggerer  as  contemporaries 
have  described  old  Ben  to  be.  Meercraft,  Bobadil,  the  Host  of  the  New 
Inn,  have  all  his  "  image  and  superscription  :"  but  Mammon  is  arrogant 
pretension  personified.  Sir  Sampson  Legend,  in  Love  for  Love,  is  such 
an  ther  lying  overbearing  character,  but  he  does  not  come  up  to  Epicure 
Mammon.  What  a  "  tow'ring  bravery  "  there  is  in  his  sensuality  !  He 
affects  no  pleasure  under  a  Sultan.  It  is  as  if  "  Egypt  with  Assyria  strove 
in  luxury."] 


VOLPONE.  91 


VOLPONE;  OR,  THE  FOX:  A  COMEDY.     BY  BEN.  JONSON. 

Volpone,  a  rich  Venetian  nobleman,  who  is  without  children,  feigns 
himself  to  be  dying,  to  draiv  gifts  from  such  as  pa.:/  their  court  to  him 
in  the  expectation  of  becoming  his  heirs.  Mosca,  his  knavish  confede- 
rate, persuades  each  of  these  men  in  turn,  that  he  is  named  for  the  in- 
heritance, and  by  this  means  extracts  from  their  credulity  many  costly 
presents. 

Volpone,  as  on  his  death-bed.     Mosca.     Corbaccio,  an  old  gentle- 
man. 

Mos.  Signior  Corbaccio, 
You  are  very  welcome,  sir. 

Corb.  How  does  your  patron  1 

Mos.  Troth,  as  he  did,  sir,  no  amends. 

Corb.  What  ?  mends  he  ? 

Mos.  No,  sir,  he  is  rather  worse. 

Corb.  That's  well.     Where  is  he  ? 

Mos.  Upon  his  couch,  sir,  newly  fall'n  asleep. 

Corb.  Does  he  sleep  well  ? 

Mos.  No  wink,  sir,  all  this  night, 
Nor  yesterday  ;   but  slumbers. 

Corb.  Good  !  he  shall  take 
Some  counsel  of  physicians :  I  have  brought  him 
An  opiate  here,  from  mine  own  doctor — 

Mos.  He  will  not  hear  of  drugs. 

Corb.  Why  ?     I  myself 
Stood  by,  while  'twas  made  ;  saw  all  th'  ingredients  ; 
And  know  it  cannot  but  most  gently  work. 
My  life  for  his,  'tis  but  to  make  him  sleep. 

Volp.  I,  his  last  sleep  if  he  would  take  it. 

Mos.  Sir, 
He  has  no  faith  in  physic. 

Corb.  Say  you,  say  you  ? 

Mos.  He  has  no  faith  in  physic :  he  does  think, 
Most  of  your  doctors  are  the  greatest  danger, 
A  worst  disease  t'  escape.     I  often  have 
Heard  him  protest,  that  your  physician 
Should  never  be  his  heir. 


92  ENGLISH  DRAMATIC  POETS. 


Corb.  Not  I  his  heir  ? 
Mos.  Not  your  physician,  sir. 
Corb.  O,  no,  no,  no, 
I  do  not  mean  it. 

Mos.  No,  sir,  nor  their  fees 
He  cannot  brook  ;  he  says  they  flay  a  man, 
Before  they  kill  him. 

Corb.  Right,  I  do  conceive  you. 

Mos.  And  then,  they  do  it  by  experiment : 
For  which  the  law  not  only  doth  absolve  'em, 
But  gives  them  great  reward  ;  and  he  is  loth 
To  hire  his  death  so. 

Corb.  It  is  true,  they  kill, 
With  as  much  license  as  a  Judge. 

Mos.  Nay,  more  : 
For  he  but  kills,  sir.  where  the  law  condemns, 
And  these  can  kill  him  too. 

Corb.  I,  or  me  ; 
Or  any  man.     How  does  his  apoplex  ? 
Is  that  strong  on  him  still  ? 

Mos.  Most  violent, 
His  speech  is  broken,  and  his  eyes  are  set, 
His  face  drawn  longer  than  'twas  wont. 

Corb.  How  ?  how  ? 
Stronger  than  he  was  wont  ? 

Mos.  No,  sir  :  his  face 
Drawn  longer  than  'twas  wont. 

Corb.  O,  good. 

Mos.  His  mouth 
Is  ever  gaping,  and  his  eyelids  hang. 

Corb.  Good. 

Mos.  A  freezing  numbness  stiffens  all  his  joints, 
And  makes  the  color  of  his  flesh  like  lead. 

Corb.  Tisgood. 

Mos.  His  pulse  beats  slow,  and  dull. 

Corb.  Good  symptoms  still. 

Mos.  And  from  his  brain — 

Corb.  Ha  ?  how  ?  not  from  his  brain  ? 


VOLPONE.  93 


Mos.  Yes,  sir,  and  from  his  brain — 
Corb.  I  conceive  you,  good. 

Mos.  Flows  a  cold  sweat,  with  a  continual  rheum 
Forth  the  resolved  corners  of  his  eyes. 

Corb.  Is  't  possible  ?  yet  I  am  better,  ha  ! 
How  does  he  with  the  swimming  of  his  head  ? 

Mos.  O,  sir,  'tis  past  the  scotomy ;  he  now 
Hath  lost  his  feeling,  and  hath  left  to  snort : 
You  hardly  can  perceive  him  that  he  breathes. 

Corb.  Excellent,  excellent,  sure  I  shall  outlast  him : 
This  makes  me  young  again  a  score  of  years. 
Mos.  I  was  coming  for  you,  sir. 
Corb.  Has  he  made  his  will  ? 
What  has  he  giv'n  me  ? 
Mos.  No,  sir. 
Corb.  Nothing  ?  ha  ? 
Mos.  He  has  not  made  his  will,  sir. 
Corb.  Oh,  oh,  oh. 
What  then  did  Voltore  the  lawyer  here  ? 

Mos.  He  smelt  a  carcase,  sir,  when  he  but  heard 
My  master  was  about  his  testament  ; 
As  I  did  urge  him  to  it  for  your  good — 

Corb.  He  came  unto  him,  did  he  ?  I  thought  so. 
Mos.  Yes,  and  presented  him  this  piece  of  plate. 
Corb.   To  be  his  heir  .' 
Mos.  I  do  not  know,  sir. 
Corb.  True, 
I  know  it  too. 

Mos.  By  your  own  scale,  sir. 

Corb.  Well,  I  shall  prevent  him  yet.     See,  Mosca,  look 
Here  I  have  brought  a  bag  of  bright  cecchines, 
Will  quite  weigh  down  his  plate. 

Mos.  Yea  marry,  sir, 
This  is  true  physic,  this  your  sacred  medicine  ; 
No  talk  of  opiates,  to  this  great  elixir. 

Corb.  Tis  aurum  palpabile,  if  not  potabile. 
Mos.  It  shall  be  minister'd  to  him  in  his  bowl  1 
Corb.  I,  do,  do,  do. 


94  ENGLISH  DRAMATIC  POETS. 


Mos.  Most  blessed  cordial. 
This  will  recover  him. 

Corb.  Yes,  do,  do,  do. 

Mos.  I  think  it  were  not  best,  sir. 

Corb.  What? 

Mos.  To  recover  him. 

Corb.  O,  no,  no,  no ;  by  no  means. 

Mos.  Why,  sir,  this 
Will  work  some  strange  effect  if  he  but  feel  it. 

Corb.  'Tis  true,  therefore  forbear,  I'll  take  my  venture  ; 
Give  me  't  again. 

Mos.  At  no  hand  ;  pardon  me 
You  shall  not  do  yourself  that  wrong,  sir. 
Will  so  advise  you,  you  shall  have  it  all. 

Corb.  How  ? 

Mos.  All  sir,  'tis  your  right,  your  own  ;  no  raaa 
Can  claim  a  part ;   'tis  yours  without  a  rival, 
Decreed  by  destiny. 

Corb.  How  1  ho  w,  good  Mosca  ? 

Mos.  I  '11  tell  you,  sir.     This  fit  he  shall  recover. 

Corb.  I  do  conceive  you. 

Mos.  And  on  first  advantage 
Of  his  gain'd  sense,  will  I  re-importune  him 
Unto  the  making  of  his  testament : 
And  show  him  this. 

Corb.  Good,  good. 

Mos.  'Tis  better  yet, 
If  you  will  hear,  sir. 

Corb.  Yes,  with  all  my  heart. 

Mos.  Now  would  I  counsel  you,  make  home  with  speed ; 
There  frame  a  will ;  whereto  you  shall  inscribe 
My  master  your  sole  heir. 

Corb.  And  disinherit 
My  son  ? 

Mos.  O  sir,  the  better  ;  for  that  color 
Shall  make  it  much  more  taking. 

Corb.  O,  but  color  ? 

Mos.  This  will,  sir,  you  shall  send  it  unto  me. 


VOLPONE.  &5 


Now,  when  I  come  to  inforce  (as  I  will  do) 

Your  cares,  your  watchings,  and  your  many  prayers, 

Your  more  than  many  gifts,  your  this  day's  present, 

And  iast  produce  your  will  ;  where  (without  thought, 

Or  least  regard  unto  your  proper  issue, 

A  son  so  brave,  and  highly  meriting) 

rise  stream  of  your  diverted  love  hath  thrown  you 

Upon  my  master,  and  made  him  your  heir ; 

He  cannot  be  so  stupid,  or  stone-dead, 

But  out  of  conscience,  and  mere  gratitude 

Corb.  He  must  pronounce  me  his  ? 

Mos.  Tis  true. 

Corb.  This  plot 
Did  I  think  on  before. 

Mos.  I  do  believe  it. 

( 'orb.  Do  you  not  believe  it  ? 

Mos.  Yes,  sir. 

Corb.  Mine  own  project. 

Mos.  Which  when  he  hath  done,  sir — 

Corb.   Published  me  his  heir  ? 

Mos.  And  you  so  certain  to  survive  him — 

Corb.  I. 

Mos.  Being  so  lusty  a  man — 

Corb.   ;Tis  true. 

Mos.  Yes,  sir — 

Corb.   I  thought  on  that  too.     See  how  he  should  be 
The  very  organ  to  express  my  thoughts  ! 

Mos.  You  have  not  only  done  yourself  a  good 

Corb.  But  multiplied  it  on  my  son. 

Mos.  'Tis  right,  sir. 

Corb.  Still  my  invention. 

Mo*.  'Las,  sir,  heaven  knows, 
It  hath  been  all  my  study,  all  my  care 
(I  e\  n  grow  grey  with  all)  how  to  work  things 

Corb.  I  do  conceive,  sweet  Mosca. 

Mos.  You  are  he, 
For  whom  I  labor,  here. 

Cor1'.    1,  do.  dn,  do  : 


06  ENGLISH  DRAMATIC  POETS. 

I  '11  straight  about  it. 

Mos.  Rook  go  with  you,  raven. 

Corb.  I  know  thee  honest. 

Mos.  You  do  lie,  sir — 

Corb.  And 

Mos.  Your  knowledge  is  no  better  than  your  ears,  sir. 

Corb.  I  do  not  doubt  to  be  a  father  to  thee. 

Mos.  Nor  1  to  gull  my  brother  of  his  blessing. 

Corb.  I  may  ha'  my  youth  restored  to  me,  why  not  ? 

Mos.  Your  worship  is  a  precious  ass 

Corb.  What  say'st  thou  ? 

Mos.  I  do  desire  your  worship  to  make  haste,  sir. 

Corb.  'Tis  done,  'tis  done,  I  go.  [Exit. 

Volp.  O,  I  shall  burst ; 
Let  out  my  sides,  let  out  my  sides 

Mos.  Contain 
Your  flux  of  laughter,  sir :  you  know  this  hope 
Is  such  a  bait  it  covers  any  hook. 

Volp.  O,  but  thy  working,  and  thy  placing  it ! 
I  cannot  hold  :  good  rascal,  let  me  kiss  thee : 
I  never  knew  thee  in  so  rare  a  humor. 

Mos.  Alas,  sir,  I  but  do,  as  I  am  taught ; 
Follow  your  grave  instructions  ;  give  'em  words  : 
Pour  oil  into  their  ears  :  and  send  them  hence. 

Volp.  'Tis  true,  'tis  true.     What  a  rare  punishment 
Is  avarice  to  itself ! 

Mos.  I,  with  our  help,  sir. 

Volp.  So  many  cares,  so  many  maladies, 
So  many  fears  attending  on  old  age, 
Yea,  death  so  often  call'd  on,  as  no  wish 
Can  be  more  frequent  with  'em,  their  limbs  faint, 
Their  senses  dull,  their  seeing,  hearing,  going, 
All  dead  before  them ;  yea  their  very  teeth, 
Their  instruments  of  eating,  failing  them  : 
Yet  this  is  reckon'd  life  !     Nay  here  was  one, 
Is  now  gone  home,  that  wishes  to  live  longer ! 
Feels  not  his  gout,  not  palsy,  feigns  himself 
Younger  by  scores  of  years,  flatters  his  age, 


VOLPONE.  Ul 


With  confident  belying  it,  hopes  he  may 

With  charms,  like  .<Eson,  have  his  youth  restored  : 

And  with  these  thoughts  so  battens,  as  if  Fate 

Would  be  as  easily  cheated  on  as  he  : 

And  all  turns  air  !     Who  's  that  there,  now  ?  a  third  ? 

[Another  knocks. 

Mos.  Close  to  your  couch  again  :  I  hear  his  voice. 
It  is  Corvino,  our  spruce  merchant. 

Volp.  Dead. 

Mos.  Another  bout,  sir,  with  your  eyes.      Who  's  there  ? 

Corvino,  a  Merchant,  enters. 

Mos.  Signior  Corvino  !  come  most  wisht  for  !    O, 
How  happy  were  you,  if  you  knew  it  now ! 

Corv.   Why?   what?  wherein? 

Mos.  The  tardy  hour  is  come,  sir. 

Corv.  He  is  not  dead  ? 

Mos.  Not  dead,  sir,  but  as  good  ; 
He  knows  no  man. 

Corv.  How  shall  I  do  then  ? 

Mos.   Why,  sir  ? 

Corv.  I  have  brought  him  here  a  pearl. 

Mos.  Perhaps  he  has 
So  much  remembrance  left,  as  to  know  you,  sir  : 
He  still  calls  on  you  :  nothing  but  your  name 
Is  in  his  mouth  ;  is  your  pearl  orient,  sir  ? 

Corv.  Venice  was  never  owner  of  the  like. 

Volp.  Signior  Corvino. 

Mos.  Hark. 

Volp.  Signior  Corvino. 

Mos.  He  calls  you,  step  and  give  it  him.     He  's  here,  sir. 
And  he  has  brought  you  a  rich  pearl. 

Corv.  How  do  you,  sir  ? 
Tell  him  it  doubles  the  twelfth  caract. 

Mos.  Sir. 
He  cannot  understand,  his  hearing  's  gone  : 
And  yet  it  comforts  him  to  see  you 

Core.   Say, 

HART    II.  8 


OS  !LISH  DRAMATIC  POETS. 


I  have  a  diamond  for  him  too. 

Mos.  Best  show  "t,  sir, 
Put  it  into  his  hand  ;   'tis  only  there 
He  apprehends :  he  has  his  feeling  yet. 
See  how  he  grasps  it ! 

Corv.  'Las,  good  gentleman  ! 
Plow  pitiful  the  sight  is ! 

Mos.  Tut,  forget,  sir. 
The  weeping  of  an  heir  should  still  be  laughter, 
Under  a  visor. 

Corv.  Why,  am  I  his  heir  ? 

Mos.  Sir,  I  am  sworn,  I  may  not  show  the  will, 
Till  he  be  dead :  but,  here  has  been  Corbaccio, 
Here  has  been  Voltore,  here  were  others  too, 
I  cannot  number  'em,  they  were  so  many, 
All  gaping  here  for  legacies ;  but  I, 
Taking  the  vantage  of  his  naming  you 
(Signior  Corvino,  Signior  Corvino),  took 
Paper,  and  pen,  and  ink,  and  there  I  ask'd  him, 
AYhom  he  would  have  his  heir  ?     Corvino.     Who 
Should  be  executor  ?     Corvino.     And 
To  any  question  he  was  silent  to, 
I  still  interpreted  the  nods,  he  made 

Through  weakness,  for  consent :  and  sent  home  the  others, 
Nothing  bequeath'd  them,  but  to  cry,  and  curse. 

Corv.  O,  my  dear  Mosca.     Does  he  not  perceive  us  ? 
Mos.  No  more  than  a  blind  harper.     He  knows  no  man, 
No  face  of  friend,  nor  name  of  any  servant, 
Who  't  was  that  fed  him  last,  or  gave  him  drink  ; 
Not  those  he  hath  begotten,  or  brought  up, 
Can  he  remember. 

Corv.  Has  he  children  ? 
Mos.  Bastards. 
Some  dozen,  or  more,  that  he  beerot  on  beo-wars, 
Gypsies,  and  Jews,  and  black-moors,  when  he  was  drunk  : 
Knew  you  not  that,  sir  ?     Tis  the  common  fable, 
The  dwarf,  the  fool,  the  eunuch,  are  all  his : 
He  's  the  true  father  of  his  familv. 


VOLPOiNE.  99 


In  all,  save  me  :  but  he  has  given  'em  nothing. 

Corv.  That 's  well,  that 'swell.    Art  sure  he  does  not  hear  us  ? 

Mos.  Sure,  sir  ?  why  look  you,  credit  your  own  sense. 
The  pox  approach,  and  add  to  your  diseases, 
If  it  would  send  you  hence  the  sooner,  sir, 
For  your  incontinence,  it  hath  deserv'd  it 
Throughly,  and  throughly,  and  the  plague  to  boot. 
(You  may  come  near,  sir)  would  you  would  once  close 
Those  filthy  eyes  of  your's  that  flow  with  slime, 
Like  two  frog-pits  :  and  those  same  hanging  cheeks, 
Cover'd  with  hide,  instead  of  skin:  (nay  help,  sir) 
That  look  like  frozen  dish-clouts  set  on  end. 

Corv.  Or,  like  an  old  smok'd  wall,  on  which  the  rain 
Ran  down  in  streaks. 

Mos.  Excellent,  sir,  speak  out; 
You  may  be  louder  yet :  a  culvering 
Discharged  in  his  ear,  would  hardly  bore  it. 

Corv.   His  nose  is  like  a  common  sewer,  still  running. 

Mos.   'Tis  good  :  and  what  his  mouth  ? 
■re .   A  very  draught. 

Mos.  O,  stop  it  up 

Corv.  By  no  means. 

Mos.  Pray  you  let  me. 
Faith  I  could  stifle  him  rarely  with  a  pillow, 
11  as  any  woman  that  should  keep  him. 

Corv.  Do  as  you  will,  but  I  '11  begone. 

Mos.  Be  so ; 
1    is  your  presence  makes  him  last  so  long. 

Corv.  I  pray  you  use  no  violence. 

Mos.  No,  sir,  why  ? 
Why  should  you  be  thus  scrupulous  ?  'Pray  you,  sir. 

Corv.  Nay,  at  your  discretion. 

Mos.  Well,  good  sir,  be  gone. 

Corv.  I  will  not  trouble  him  now,  to  take  my  pearl. 
os.  Puh,  nor  your  diamond.     What  a  needless  care 
Is  this  afflicts  you  ?     Is  not  all  here  yours  ? 
Am  not  I  here,  whom  you  have  made  your  creature, 
That  owe  my  being  to  you  ? 


100  ENGLISH   I"!  \M  VTIC  POETS. 

Corv.  Grateful  Mosca  ! 
Thou  art  my  friend,  my  fellow,  my  companion, 
My  partner,  and  shall  share  in  all  my  fortunes.  .     \Exit. 

Volp.  My  divine  Mosca  ! 
Thou  hast  to-day  out  gone  thyself. 


THE  TRIUMPH  OF  LOVE:  BEING  THE  SECOND  OF  FOUR  PLAYS, 
OR  MORAL  REPRESENTATIONS.      BY  FRANCIS  BEAUMONT. 

Violanta,  Daughter  to  a  Nobleman  of  Milan,  is  with  child  by  Gerrard, 
supposed  to  be  of  mean  descent:  a?i  offence  which  by  the  laws  of  Milan 
is  made  capital  to  both  parties. 

Violanta.     Gerrard. 

Viol.  Why  does  my  Gerrard  grieve  ? 

Ger.  O  my  sweet  mistress, 
It  is  not  life  (which  by  our  Milan  law 
My  fact  hath  forfeited)  makes  me  thus  pensive  ; 
T/nl  I  would  lose  to  save  the  little  finger 
Of  this  your  noble  burthen  from  least  hurt, 
Because  your  blood  is  in  it.     But  since  your  love 
Made  poor  incompatible  me  the  parent 
(Being  we  are  not  married)  your  dear  blood 
Falls  under  the  same  cruel  penalty  : 
And  can  heaven  think  fit  ye  die  for  me  ? 
For  Heaven's  sake  say  I  ravish'd  you  ;  I'll  swear  it, 
To  keep  your  life  and  repute  unstain'd. 

Viol.  O  Gerrard,  thou  art  my  life  and  faculties, 
And  if  I  lose  thee,  I'll  not  keep  mine  own ; 
The  thought  of  whom  sweetens  all  miseries. 
Would'st  have  me  murder  thee  beyond  thy  death  ? 
Unjustly  scandal  thee  with  ravishment  ? 
It  was  so  far  from  rape,  that  heaven  doth  know, 
If  ever  the  first  lovers,  ere  they  fell, 
Knew  simply  in  the  state  of  innocence, 
Such  was  this  act,  this,  that  doth  ask  no  blush. 

Ger.   Oh  !  but  my  rarest  Violanta.  when 


TRIUMPH  OF  LOVE.  101 


My  lord  Randulpho,  brother  to  your  father, 
Shall  understand  this,  how  will  he  exclaim, 
That  my  poor  aunt  and  me,  which  his  free  alms 
Hath  nurs'd,  since  Milan  by  the  duke  of  Mantua, 

Who  now  usurps  it,  was  surpriz'd that  time 

My  father  and  my  mother  both  were  slain, 
With  my  aunt's  husband,  as  she  says ;  their  states 
Despoil'd  and  seized ;  'tis  past  my  memory, 
But  thus  she  told  me :  only  thus  I  know, 
Since  I  could  understand,  your  honor'd  uncle 
Hath  giv'n  me  all  the  liberal  education 
That  his  own  son  might  look  for,  had  he  one  ; 
Now  will  he  say,  dost  thou  requite  me  thus  ? 
O  !  the  thought  kills  me. 

Viol.  Gentle,  gentle  Gerrard, 
Be  cheer'd  and  hope  the  best.     My  mother,  father, 
And  uncle,  love  me  most  indulgently, 
Being  the  only  branch  of  all  their  stocks  : 
But  neither  they,  nor  he  thou  would 'st  not  grieve 
With  this  unwelcome  news,  shall  ever  hear 
Violanta's  tongue  reveal,  much  less  accuse 
Gerrard  to  be  the*  father  of  his  own. 
I'll  rather  silent  die,  that  thou  may'st  live 
To  see  thy  little  offspring  grow  and  thrive. 


Violanta  is  attended  in  Childbed  by  her  mother  Angelina. 

Viol.  Mother,  I'd  not  offend  you  ;   might  not  Gerrard 
Steal  in  and  see  me  in  the  evening  ? 

Angel.  Well, 
Bid  him  do  so. 

Viol.  Heaven's  blessing  on  your  heart. 
Do  ye  not  call  child-bearing  travel,  mother  ? 

Angel.  Ye  . 

Viol.  It  well  may  be.     The  bare-foot  traveller 
That's  born  a  prince,  and  walks  his  pilgrimage, 
Whose  tender  feet  kiss  the  remorseless  stones 
Onlv,  ne'er  felt  a  travel  like  to  it. 
Alas,  dear  mother,  you  groan'd  thus  for  me, 


102  ENGLISH  DRAMATIC  POETS. 

And  yet  how  disobedient  have  I  been  ! 

Angel.  Peace,  Violanta  :  thou  hast  always  been 
Gentle  and  good. 

Viol.  Gerrard  is  better,  mother  : 

0  if  you  knew  the  implicit  innocency 

Dwells  in  his  breast,  you'd  love  him  like  your  prayers. 

1  see  no  reason  but  my  father  might 

Be  told  the  truth,  being  pleas'd  tor  Ferdinand 
To  woo  himself:  and  Gerrard  ever  was 
His  full  comparative  ;  my  uncle  loves  him, 
As  he  loves  Ferdinand. 

Angel.  No,  not  for  the  world, 
Since  his  intent  is  cross'd  :  lov'd  Ferdinand 
Thus  ruin'd,  and  a  child  got  out  of  wedlock, 
His  madness  would  pursue  ye  both  to  death. 

Viol.  As  you  please,  mother.     I  am  now,  methinks, 
Even  in  the  land  of  ease ;  I'll  sleep. 

Angel.  Draw  in 
The  bed  nearer  the  fire :  silken  rest 
Tie  all  thy  cares  up.* 

Violanta  describes  how  hrr  love  for  Gerrafd  began. 
Viol.  Gerrard 's  and  my  affection  began 
In  infancy :  my  uncle  brought  him  oft 
In  long  coats  hither. 

The  little  boy  would  kiss  me,  being  a  child, 
And  say  he  lov'd  me  ;  give  me  all  his  toys, 
Bracelets,  rings,  sweetmeats,  all  his  rosy  smiles : 
I  then  would  stand  and  stare  upon  his  eyes, 
Play  with  his  locks,  and  swear  I  loved  him  too ; 
For  sure  methought  he  was  a  little  Love, 
He  wooed  so  prettily  in  innocence, 
That  then  he  warm'd  my  fancy. 

*  Violanta's  prattle  is  very  pretty  and  so  natural  in  her  situation,  that  I 
could  not  resist  giving  it  a  place.  Juno  Lucina  was  never  invoked  with 
more  elegance.  Pope  has  been  praised  for  giving  dignity  to  a  game  of 
cards.     It  required  at  least  as  much  address  to  ennoble  a  lving-in. 


MAID'S  TR  \GEDY.  103 


THE  MAID'S  TRAGEDY.     BY  FRANCIS  BEAUMONT,  AND  JOHN 

FLETCHER. 

Amintor,  a  noble  Gentleman,  promises  marriage  to  Aspatia,  and  for- 
sakes her  by  the  King's  command  to  wed  Evadne. —  The  grief  of 
Aspatia  at  being  forsaken,  described. 

This  lady 
Walks  discontented,  with  her  watry  eyes 
Bent  on  the  earth  :  the  unfrequented  woods 
Are  her  delight ;   and  when  she  sees  a  bank 
Stuck  full  of  flowers,  she  with  a  sigh  will  tell 
Her  servants  what  a  pretty  place  it  were 
To  bury  lovers  in;   and  make  her  maids 
Pluck  'em,  and  strew  her  over  like  a  corse. 
She  carries  with  her  an  infectious  grief 
That  strikes  all  her  beholders,  she  will  sing 
The  mournfull'st  things  that  ever  ear  have  heard. 
And  sigh,  and  sing  again  ;  and  when  the  rest 
Of  our  young  ladies  in  their  wanton  blood, 
Tell  mirthful  tales  in  course  that  fill  the  room 
With  laughter,  she  will  with  so  sad  a  look 
Bring  forth  a  story  of  the  silent  death 
Of  some  forsaken  virgin,  which  her  grief 
Will  put  in  such  a  phrase,  that,  ere  she  end, 
She'll  send  them  weeping  one  by  one  away. 

The  marriage- night  of  Amintor  and  Evadne. 

Evadne.     Aspatia.     Dula,  and  other  Ladies. 

Evad.   Would  thou  could'st  instill  [To  Dula. 

Some  of  thy  mirth  into  Aspatia. 

Asp.   It  were  a  timeless  smile  should  prove  mv  cheek  ; 
It  were  a  fitter  hour  for  me  to  laugh, 
When  at  the  altar  the  religious  priest 
Were  pacifying  the  offended  powers 
With  sacrifice,  than  now.     This  should  have  been 
Mv  night,  and  all  your  hands  have  been  employ'd 
In  giving  me  a  spotless  offering 


104  ENGLISH  DRAMATIC  POETS. 


To  young  Amintor's  bed,  as  we  are  now 
For  you:  pardon,  Evadne,  would  my  worth 

greal  as  your's,  or  that  the  King,  or  he, 
Or  both  thought  so ;   perhaps  lie  found  me  worthless, 
But  till  he  did  so,  in  these  cars  of  mine 
(These  credulous  ears)  he  pour'd  the  sweetest  words 
That  art  or  love  could  frame. 

id.   Nay,  leave  this  sad  talk,  madam. 

Asp.   Would  I  could,  then  should  I  leave  the  cause. 
Lay  a  garland  on  my  hearse  of  the  dismal  yew. 

Evad.  That's  one  of  your  sad  songs,  madam. 

Asp.  Believe  me,  'tis  a  very  pretty  one. 

Evad.  How  is  it,  madam  ? 

Lay  a  gar  land  on  my  hearse  of  the  dismal  yew  ; 
Maidens,  willow  branches  bear  ;  say  I  died  true  : 
Mn  love  ir as  false,  hut  I  was  firm  from  my  hour  of  birth  ; 

m  my  buried  body  lay  lightly  gentle  earth. 
Madam,  good  night ; — may  no  discontent 
( J-row  'twixt  your  love  and  you  ;  but  if  there  do, 
Inquire  of  me,  and  I  will  guide  your  moan, 
Teach  you  an  artificial  way  to  grieve, 
To  keep  your  sorrow  waking.     Love  your  lord 
No  worse  than  I ;   but  if  you  love  so  well, 
Alas,  you  may  displease  him,  so  did  I. 
This  is  the  last  time  you  shall  look  on  me : 
Ladies,  farewell  ;  as  soon  as  I  am  dead, 
Come  all  and  watch  one  night  about  my  hearse  ; 
Bring  each  a  mournful  story  and  a  tear 
To  offer  at  it  when  I  go  to  earth  : 
Witli  flattering  ivy  clasp  my  coffin  round, 
Write  on  my  brow  my  fortune,  let  my  bier 
Be  borne  by  virgins  that  shall  sing  by  course 
The  truth  of  maids  and  perjuries  of  men. 

Evad.  Alas,  I  pity  thee.  [Amintor  enters. 

Asp.  Go  end  be  happy  in  your  lady's  love  ;     [To  Amintor. 
May  all  the  wrongs  that  you  have  done  to  me, 
Be  utterly  forgotten  in  my  death. 
I  '11  trouble   von  no  more,   vet  I  will  take 


MAID'S  TUAGEDY.  105 


A  parting  kiss,  and  will  not  be  denied. 

You  '11  come,  my  lord,  and  see  the  virgins  weep 

When  I  am  laid  in  earth,  though  you  yourself 

Can  know  no  pity  :  thus  I  wind  myself 

Into  this  willow  garland,  and  am  prouder, 

That  I  was  once  your  love  (though  now  refus'd) 

Than  to  have  had  another  true  to  me. 

Aspatia  wills  A  r  Maidens  to  be  sorrowful ,  because  she  is  so. 

Aspatia.     Antiphila.     Olympias. 

Asp.  Come,  let  's  be  sad,  my  girls , 
That  down-cast  of  thine  eye,  Olympias, 
Shows  a  fine  sorrow  ;  mark,  Antiphila, 
Just  such  another  was  the  nymph  Oenone, 
When  Paris  brought  home  Helen  :  now  a  tear, 
Ami  then  thou  art  a  piece  expressing  fully 
The  Carthage  Queen,  when  from  a  cold  sea  rock, 
Full  with  her  sorrow,  she  tied  fast  her  eyes 
To  the  fair  Trojan  ships,  and  having  lost  them, 
Just  as  thine  eyes  do,  down  stole  a  tear,  Antiphila. 
What  would  this  wench  do,  if  she  were  Aspatia  ? 
Here  she  would  stand,  till  some  more  pitying  god 
Turn'd  her  to  marble :   'tis  enough,  my  wench  ; 
Show  me  the  piece  of  needle-work  you  wrought. 

Ant.  Of  Ariadne,  madam  ? 

Asp.  Yes,  that  piece. 
This  should  be  Theseus,  h'  as  a  cozening  face  ; 
You  meant  him  for  a  man  ? 

Ant.  He  was  so,  madam, 

Asp.   Why  then  'tis  well  enough.     Never  look  back, 
You  have  a  full  wind,  and  a  false  heart,  Theseus. 
Does  not  the  story  say,  his  keel  was  split, 
Or  his  masts  spent,  or  some  kind  rock  or  other 
Mel  with  his  vessel  ? 

Ant.    '■      as  i  remember. 

Asp.   It  should  ha'  been  so  :  could  the  gods  know  this, 
And  not  of  all  their  number  raise  ;i  storm? 


106  ENGL1  !H  hit  ^MATIC  POETS. 


But  they  are  all  as  ill.      This  false  smile  was  well  exprest, 
.lust  auch  another  >u  shall  not  go  so,  Antiphila; 

In  this  place  work  a  quicksand, 
And  over  it  a  shallow  smiling  wal 
And  his  ship  ploughing  it,  and  then  a  fVar. 
Do  that  fear  to  the  life,  wench. 
t.   'Twill  wrong  the  story. 

Asp.  'Twill  make  the  story,  wrong'd  by  wanton  poets, 
Live  long  and  be  believ'd  ;  but  where's  the  lady  ? 

Ant.  There,  Madam. 

Asp.  Fie,  you  have  miss'd  it  here,  Antiphila, 
You  are  much  mistaken,  wench ; 
These  colors  are  not  dull  and  pale  enough, 
To  show  a  soul  so  full  of  misery 
As  this  sad  lady's  was ;  do  it  by  me, 
Do  it  again  by  me  the  lost  Aspatia, 
And  you  shall  find  all  true  but  the  wild  island. 
1  stand  upon  the  sea-beach  now,  and  think 
Mine  arms  thus,  and  mine  hair  blown  with  the  wind, 
Wild  as  that  desart,  and  let  all  about  me 
Tell  that  I  am  forsaken,  do  my  fa.c: 
(If  thou  hadst  ever  feeling  of  a  sorrow) 
Thus,  thus,  Antiphila,  strive  to  make  me  look 
Like  Sorrow's  monument ;  and  the  trees  about  me, 
Let  them  be  dry  and  leaveless ;    let  the  rocks 
Groan  with  continual  surges,  and  behind  me 
Make  all  a  desolation ;  look,  look,  wenches, 
A  miserable  life  of  this  poor  picture. 

Olym.  Dear  madam ! 

Asp.  I  have  done,  sit  down,  and  let  us 
Upon  that  point  fix  all  our  eyes,  that  point  there ; 
Make  a  dull  silence,  till  you  feel  a  sudden  sadness 
Give  us  new  souls.* 

*  One  characteristic  of  the  excellent  old  poets  is  their  being  able  to  be- 
stow grace  upon  subjects  which  naturally  do  not  seem  susceptible  of  any. 
I  will  mention  two  instances:  Zelmane,  in  the  Arcadia  of  Sidney;  and 
Helena,  in  the  All  's  Well  that  Ends  Well  of  Shakspeare.  What  can  be 
more  unpromising  at  first  si^ht  than  the  idea  of  a  young  man  disguising 


MAID'S  TRAGEDY.  107 


Evadne  implores  forgivoiess  of  Amintor  for  marrying  him  while  she 

was  the  King's  Mistress. 

Evad.  O  my  lord. 

Amin.  How  now  ! 

Evad.  My  much  abused  lord  !  [Kneels. 

Amin.  This  cannot  be. 

Evad.  I  do  not  kneel  to  live,  I  dare  not  hope  it ; 
The  wrongs  I  did  are  greater ;  look  upon  me, 
Though  I  appear  with  all  my  faults. 

Amin.  Stand  up. 
This  is  no  new  way  to  beget  more  sorrow  : 
Heaven  knows  I  have  too  many ;  do  not  mock  me ; 
Though  I  am  tame  and  bred  up  with  my  wrongs, 
Which  are  my  foster-brothers,  I  may  leap 
Like  a  hand-wolf  into  my  natural  wilderness, 
And  do  an  outrage :  pray  thee  do  not  mock  me. 

Evad.  My  whole  life  is  so  leprous,  it  infects 

himself  in  woman's  attire,  and  passing  himself  off  for  a  woman  among 
en?  and  that  too  for  a  long  space  of  time?  yet  Sir  Philip  has 
preserved  such  a  matchless  decorum,  that  neither  does  Pyrocles'  manhood 
sutler  any  stain  for  the  effeminacy  of  Zelmane,  nor  is  the  respect  due  to  the 
princesses  at  all  diminished  when  the  deception  comes  to  be  known.  In 
the  sweetly  constituted  mind  of  Sir  Philip  Sidney,  it  seems  as  if  no 
ugly  thought  nor  unhandsome  meditation  could  find  a  harbor.  He  turned 
all  that  he  touched  into  images  of  honor  and  virtue.  Helena,  in  Shakspeare, 
is  a  young  woman  seeking  a  man  in  marriage.  The  ordinary  laws  of  court- 
ship are  reversed;  the  habitual  feelings  are  violated.  Yet  with  such 
exquisite  address  this  dangerous  subject  is  handled,  that  Helena's  forward- 
ness loses  her  no  honor ;  delicacy  dispenses  with  her  laws  in  her  favor,  and 
Nature  in  her  single  case  seems  content  to  suffer  a  sweet  violation. 

Aspatia,  in  this  tragedy,  is  a  character  equally  difficult  with  Helena 
of  being  managed  with  grace.  She,  too,  is  a  slighted  woman,  refused  by  the 
man  who  had  once  engaged  to  marry  her.  Yet  it  is  artfully  contrived  that 
while  we  pity  her,  we  respect  her,  and  she  descends  without  degradation, 
So  much  true  poetry  and  passion  can  do  to  confer  dignity  upon  subjects 
which  do  not  seem  capable  of  it.  But  Aspatia  must  not  be  compared  at  all 
points  with  Helena ;  she  does  not  so  absolutely  predominate  over  her 
situation  but  she  suffers  some  diminution,  some  abatement  of  the  full  lustre 
of  tin'  female  character  ;  which  Helena  never  does  :  her  character  has  many 
es  of  sweetness,  >ome  ofdelicacy,  but  it  has  weakness  which, if  we  do 
not  despise,  we  are  sorry  for  After  all,  Beaumont  and  Fletcher  were  but 
an  inferior  sort  of  Shaksneares  and  Sidnevs. 


MATIC  POETS. 


Ul  my  repentance:  1  would  buy  your  pardon 
Though  at  the  high<  st  i  a  with  my  life. 

That  slight  contrition,  that  's  no  sacrifice 
For  what  I  have  committed. 

A min.  Sure  I  dazzle  : 
There  cannot  be  a  faith  in  that  foul  woman, 
That  knows  no  god  more  mighty  than  her  mischiefs. 
Thou  dost  still  worse,  still  number  on  thy  faults, 
To  press  my  poor  heart  thus.     Can  I  believe 
There's  any  seed  of  virtue  in  that  woman 
Left  to  shoot  up,  that  dares  go  on  in  sin 
Known,  and  so  known  as  thine  is  ?     O  Evadne  ! 
Would  there  were  any  safety  in  thy  sex, 
That  I  might  put  a  thousand  sorrows  off, 
And  credit  thy  repentance  :  but  I  must  not ; 
Thou  hast  brought  me  to  the  dull  calamity, 
To  that  strange  misbelief  of  all  the  world, 
And  all  things  that  are  in  it,  that  I  fear 
I  shall  fall  like  a  tree,  and  find  my  grave, 
Only  rememb'ring  that  I  grieve. 

Evad.  My  lord, 
Give  me  your  griefs  :  you  are  an  innocent, 
A  soul  as  white  as  heaven  ;  let  not  my  sins 
Perish  your  noble  youth  :  1  do  not  fall  here 
To  shadow  by  dissembling  with  my  tears, 
As  all  say  women  can,  or  to  make  less 
"What  my  hot  will  hath  done,  which  heaven  and  you 
Knows  to  be  tougher  than  the  hand  of  time 
Can  cut  from  man's  remembrance  ;  no  I  do  not ; 
I  do  appear  the  same,  the  same  Evadne, 
Drest  in  the  shames  I  liv'd  in,  the  same  monster. 
But  these  are  names  of  honor,  to  what  I  am  ; 
I  do  present  myself  the  foulest  creature, 
Most  poisonous,  dangerous,  and  despis'd  of  men, 
Lerna  e'er  bred,  or  Nilus  ;  I  am  hell, 
Till  you,  my  dear  lord,  shoot  your  light  into  me, 
The  beams  of  your  forgiveness  :   I  am  soul-sick, 
And  wither  with  the  fear  of  one  condemn'd. 


MAID'S  TRAGEDY.  109 


Till  I  have  got  your  pardon. 

Amin.  Rise,  Evadne. 
Those  heavenly  powers  that  put  this  good  into  thee, 
Grant  a  continuance  of  it :  I  forgive  thee  ; 
Make  thyself  worthy  of  it,  and  take  heed, 
Take  heed,  Evadne,  this  be  serious  ; 
Mock  not  the  powers  above,  that  can  and  dare 
Give  thee  a  great  example  of  their  justice 
To  all  ensuing  eyes,  if  thou  play'st 
With  thy  repentance,  the  best  sacrifice. 

Evad.  I  have  done  nothing  good  to  win  belief, 
My  life  hath  been  so  faithless  ;  all  the  creatures 
Made  for  heaven's  honors  have  their  ends,  and  good  ones, 
All  but  the  cozening  Crocodiles,  false  women  ; 
They  reign  here  like  those  plagues,  those  killing  sores, 
Men  pray  against ;  and  when  they  die,  like  tales 
111  told,  and  unbeliev'd,  they  pass  away 
And  go  to  dust  forgotten  :  but,  my  lord, 
Those  short  days  I  shall  number  to  my  rest 
(As  many  must  not  see  me)  shall,  though  too  late, 
Though  in  my  evening,  yet  perceive  a  will, 
Since  I  can  do  no  good  because  a  woman, 
Reach  constantly  at  something  that  is  near  it ; 
I  will  redeem  one  minute  of  my  age, 
Or  like  another  Niobe  I  '11  weep 
Till  I  am  water. 

Amin.  I  am  now  dissolved  : 
My  frozen  soul  melts  :  may  each  sin  thou  hast, 
Find  a  new  mercy  :  rise,  I  am  at  peace  : 
Had'st  thou  been  thus,  thus  excellently  good, 
Before  that  devil  king  lempted  thy  frailty, 
Sure  thou  had'st  made  a  star  :  give  me  thy  hand  ; 
From  this  time  I  will  know  thee,  and  as  far 
As  honor  gives  me  leave,  be  thy  Amintor  : 
When  we  meet  next,  I  will  salute  thee  fairly, 
And  pray  the  gods  to  give  thee  happy  days  : 
My  charity  shall  go  along  with  thee, 


Though  my  embraces  must  be  far  from  thee. 


HO  ENGLISH  UK  \  M  VT1C  POETS. 


Men's  Natures  nunc  hard  and  subtle  than  ■Vomen's. 
How  stubbornly  this  fellow  answer'd  me! 
There  is  a  vile  dishonest  trick  in  man, 
More  than  in  women  :  all  the  men  [  meet 
Appear  thus  to  me,  are  harsh  and  rude, 
And  have  a  subtilty  in  everythil 
Which  love  could  never  Know  ;   but  we  fond  women 
Harbor  the  easiest  and  smoothest  thoughts, 
And  think  all  shall  go  so  ;   it  is  unjust 
That  men  and  women  should  be  matcht  together. 


„-. 


PHILASTER  ;  OR,  LOVE  LIES  A  BLEEDING  :  A  TRAGI-COMEDY. 
BY  FRANCIS  BEAUMONT  AND  JOHN  FLETCHER. 

Philaster  tells  the  Princess  Arethusa  how  he  first  found  the  boy  Betlario 

I  have  a  boy  sent  by  the  gods, 

Not  yet  seen  in  the  court ;  hunting  the  buck, 

found  him  sitting  by  a  fountain  side, 
Of  which  he  borrow'd  some  to  quench  his  thirst, 
And  paid  the  nymph  again  as  much  in  tears ; 
A  garland  lay  him  by,  made  by  himself, 
Of  many  several  flowers,  bred  in  the  bay, 
Stuck  in  that  mystic  order,  that  the  rareness 
Delighted  me :  but  ever  when  he  turn'd 
His  tender  eyes  upon  them,  he  would  weep, 
As  if  he  meant  to  make  them  grow  again. 
Seeing  such  pretty  helpless  innocence 
Dwell  in  his  face,  I  ask'd  him  all  his  story ; 
Fie  told  me  that  his  parents  gentle  died, 
Leaving  him  to  the  mercy  of  the  fields, 
Which  gave  him  roots  ;  and  of  the  crystal  springs, 
Which  did  not  stop  their  courses;  and  the  sun, 
Which  still,  he  thank'd  him,  yielded  him  his  light. 
Then  took  he  up  his  garland  and  did  show, 
What  every  flower,  as  country  people  hold, 
Did  signify  ;   and  how  all  order'd  thus, 
Exprest  his  grief:  and  to  my  thoughts  did  read 


PHIL  ASTER.  Ill 


The  prettiest  lecture  of  his  country  art 

That,  could  be  wish'd,  so  that,  methought,  I  could 

Have  studied  it.     I  gladly  entertain'd  him, 

Who  was  as  glad  to  follow  ;  and  have  got 

The  trustiest,  loving'st,  and  the  gentlest  boy, 

That  ever  master  kept :  him  will  I  send 

To  wait  on  you,  and  bear  our  hidden  love. 

Phil  aster  prefers  Bellario  to  the  Service  of  the  Princess  Jlrethusa. 

Phi.  And  thou  shalt  find  her  honorable,  boy, 
Full  of  regard  unto  thy  tender  youth, 
For  thine  own  modesty  ;  and  for  my  sake, 
Apter  to  give,  than  thou  wilt  be  to  ask,  aye,  or  deserve. 

Be?/.   Sir,  you  did  take  me  up  when  I  was  nothing, 
And  only  yet  am  something  by  being  yours ; 
You  trusted  me  unknown ;  and  that  which  you  are  apt 
To  construe  a  simple  innocence  in  me, 
Perhaps  might  have  been  craft,  the  cunning  of  a  boy 
Harden'd  in  lies  and  theft;  yet  ventur'd  you 
To  part  my  miseries  and  me :  for  which, 
I  never  can  expect  to  serve  a  lady 
That  bears  more  honor  in  her  breast  than  you. 

Phi.  But,  boy,  it  will  prefer  thee ;  thou  art  young, 
And  bear  'st  a  childish  overflowing  love 
To  them  that  clap  thy  cheeks  and  speak  thee  fair  yet. 
But  when  thy  judgment  comes  to  rule  those  passions, 
Thou  wilt  remember  best  those  careful  friends 
That  placed  thee  in  the  noblest  way  of  life : 
She  is  a  princess  I  prefer  thee  to. 

Bell.  In  that  small  time  that  I  have  seen  the  world, 
I  never  knew  a  man  hasty  to  part 
With  a  servant  he  thought  trusty  ;   I  remember, 
My  father  would  prefer  the  boys  he  kept 
To  greater  men  than  he,  but  did  it  not 
Till  they  were  grown  too  saucy  for  himself. 

Phi.  Why,  gentle  boy,  I  find  no  fault  at  all 
In  thy  behavior. 

Bell.  Sir,  if  I  have  made 


112  ENCI.ISII   DRAMATIC  POETS. 


A  fault  of  ignorance,  instruct  my  youth  ; 
I  shall  be  willing,  if  not  apt,  to  learn. 
Age  and  experience  will  adorn  my  mind 
With  larger  knowledge  :  and  if  I  have  done 
\  wilful  fault,  think  me  not  past  all  hope 
For  once  ;  what  master  holds  so  strict  a  hand 
Over  his  boy,  that  he  will  part  with  him 
Without  one  warnrhg  ?  Let  me  be  corrected 
To  break  my  stubbornness  if  it  be  so, 
Rather  than  turn  me  off,  and  I  shall  mend. 

Phi.  Thy  love  doth  plead  so  prettily  to  stay, 
That  (trust  me)  I  could  weep  to  part  with  thee. 
Alas,  I  do  not  turn  thee  off;  thou  knowest 
It  is  my  business  that  doth  call  thee  hence, 
And  when  thou  art  with  her  thou  dwell'st  with  me  : 
Think  so,  and  'tis  so  ;  and  when  time  is  full, 
That  thou  hast  well  discharg'd  this  heavy  trust, 
Laid  on  so  weak  a  one,  I  will  again 
With  joy  receive  thee  ;  as  I  live,  I  will  ; 
Nay  weep  not,  gentle  boy  ;   'tis  more  than  time 
Thou  didst  attend  the  princess. 

Bell.  I  am  gone  ; 
But  since  1  am  to  part  with  you,  my  lord, 
And  none  knows  whether  I  shall  live  to  do 
More  service  for  you,  take  this  little  prayer ; 
Heaven  bless  your  loves,  your  fights,  all  your  designs. 
May  sick  men.  if  they  have  your  wish,  be  well ; 
And  heav  n  hate  those  you  curse,  though  I  be  one. 

Bellario  describes  to  the  Princess  Arethttsa  the  manner  of  his 
master  Philaster's  love  for  her. 

Are.  Sir,  you  are  sad  to  change  your  service,  is  "t  not  so  ? 

Bell.  Madam,  I  have  not  chang'd  :  I  wait  on  you, 
To  do  him  service. 

Are.  Thou  disclaim'st  in  me  ; 
Tell  me  thy  name. 

Bell.  Bellario. 

Are.  Thou  canst  sing  and  play  ? 


PHIL  ASTER.  113 


Bell.  If  grief  will  give  me  lea\e.  madam,  I  can. 

Are.   Alas  !  what  kind  of  grief  can  thy  years  know  ? 
Had'st  thou  a  curst  master  when  thou  went'st  to  school  ? 
Thou  art  not  capable  of  any  other  grief; 
Thy  brows  and  cheeks  are  smooth  as  waters  be, 
When  no  breath  troubles  them  :  believe  me,  boy, 
Care  seeks  out  wrinkled  brows,  and  hollow  eyes, 
And  builds  himself  caves  to  abide  in  them. 
Come,  sir,  tell  me  truly,  does  your  lord  love  me  ? 

Bell.    Love,  madam  ?  I  know  not  what  it  is. 

Are.  Canst  thou  know  grief,  and  never  yet  knew'st  love  ? 
Thou  art  deceiv'd,  boy.     Does  he  speak  of  me 
As  if  he  wish'd  me  well  ? 

Bell  I  fit  be  love, 
To  forget  all  respect  of  his  own  friends. 
In  thinking  of  your  face  ;  if  it  be  love, 
To  sit  cross-arm'd  and  sigh  away  the  day, 
Mingled  with  starts,  crying  your  name  as  loud 
And  hastily,  as  men  i'  the  streets  do  fire ; 
If  it  be  love  to  weep  himself  away, 
When  he  but  hears  of  any  lady  dead, 
Or  kill'd,  because  it  might  have  been  your  chance ; 
If  when  he  goes  to  rest  (which  will  not  be) 
'Twixt  every  prayer  he  says  to  name  you  once, 
As  others  drop  a  bead,  be  to  be  in  love  ; 
Then,  madam,  I  dare  swear  he  loves  you. 

Are.  O  you  're  a  cunning  boy,  and  taught  to  lie 
For  your  lord's  credit ;   but  thou  know*st  a  lie 
That  bears  this  sound,  is  welcomer  to  me 
Than  any  truth  that  says  he  loves  me  not. 

Philaster  is  jealous  o/"Bellario  with  the  Princess. 

Bell.  Health  to  you,  my  lord  ; 
The  princess  doth  commend  her  love,  her  life, 
And  this  unto  you. 

Phi.  O  Bellario, 
Now  I  perceive  she  loves  me,  she  does  show  it 
In  loving  thee,  my  boy,  she  has  made  thee  brave. 
part  it.  9 


114  ENGLISH  DRAMATIC  POETS. 

Bell.   My  lord,  she  has  attired  me  past  my  wish, 
Past  my  desert,  more  lii  for  her  attendant. 
Though  far  unfit  for  me  who  do  attend. 

Phi.  Thou  art  grown  courtly,  boy.     O  let  all  women 
That  love  black  deeds  learn  to  dissemble  here. 
Here  by  this  paper  she  does  write  to  me 
As  if  her  heart  were  mines  of  adamant 
To  all  the  world  besides,  but  unto  me 
A  maiden  snow  that  melted  with  my  looks. 
Tell  me,  my  boy,  how  doth  ths  princess  use  thee  ? 
For  I  shall  guess  her  love  to  me  by  that. 

Bell.  Scarce  like  her  servant,  but  as  if  I  were 
Something  allied  to  her;  or  had  preserv'd 
Her  life  three  times  by  my  fidelity  ; 
As  mothers  fond  do  use  their  only  sons  ; 
As  I  'd  use  one  that 's  left  unto  my  trust, 
For  whom  my  life  should  pay  if  he  met  harm, 
So  she  does  use  me. 

Phi.   Why,  this  is  wond'rous  well  : 
But  what  kind  language  does  she  feed  thee  with  ? 

Bell.   Why,  she  does  tell  me,  she  will  trust  my  youth 
With  all  her  loving  secrets,  and  does  call  me 
Her  pretty  servant,  bids  me  weep  no  more 
For  leaving  you  ;  she  '11  see  my  services 
Regarded  :  and  such  words  of  that  soft  strain, 
That  I  am  nearer  weeping  when  she  ends 
Than  ere  she  spake. 

Phi.  This  is  much  better  still. 

Bell.  Are  you  ill,  my  lord  ? 

Phi.  Ill  ?  "  No,  Bellario. 

Bell.  Methinks  your  words 
Fall  not  from  off  your  tongue  so  evenly, 
Nor  is  there  in  your  looks  that  quietness, 
That  I  was  wont  to  see. 

Phi.  Thou  art  deceiv'd,  boy. — And  she  strokes  thy  head  ? 

Bell.  Yes. 

Phi.  And  she  does  clap  thy  cheeks  ? 

Bell.  She  does,  my  lord. 


PHIL  ASTER.  1J5 


Phi.  And  she  does  kiss  thee,  boy,  ha  ? 

Bell.  How,  my  lord  ? 

Phi.  She  kisses  thee  ? 

Bell.  Not  so,  my  lord. 

Phi.  Come,  come,  I  know  she  does. 

Bell.  No,  by  my  life. 
Aye,  now  I  see  why  my  disturbed  thoughts 
Were  so  perplext  when  first  I  went  to  her  ; 
My  heart  held  augury.     You  are  abus'd, 
Sonic  villain  has  abus'd  you  ;   I  do  see 
Whereto  you  tend  ;   fall  rocks  upon  his  head, 
That  put  this  to  you  ;   'tis  some  subtle  train 
To  bring  that  noble  frame  of  yours  to  nought. 

Phi.   Thou  think'st  I  will  be  angry  with  thee.     Come, 
Thou  shalt  know  all  my  drift.     I  hate  her  more 
Than  1  love  happiness,  and  plac'd  thee  there 
To  pry  with  narrow  eyes  into  her  deeds. 
Hast  thou  discover'd  1  is  she  fal'n  to  lust, 
As  I  would  wish  her  ?  Speak  some  comfort  to  me. 

Bell.   My  lord,  you  did  mistake  the  boy  you  sent ; 
Had  she  a  sin  that  way,  hid  from  the  world, 
I  would  not  aid 

Her  base  desires ;  but  what  I  came  to  know 
As  servant  to  her,  I  would  not  reveal, 
To  make  my  life  last  ages. 

Phi.  O  my  heart ! 
This  is  a  salve  worse  than  the  main  disease. 
Tell  me  thy  thoughts  ;   for  I  will  know  the  least 
That  dwells  within  thee,  or  will  rip  thy  heart 
To  know  it  ;   I  will  see  thy  thoughts  as  plain 
As  I  do  know  thy  face. 

Bell.  Why,  so  you  do. 
She  is  (for  aught  I  know)  by  all  the  gods, 
As  chaste  as  ice ;   but  were  she  foul  as  hell, 
And  I  did  know  it,  thus  ;  the  breath  of  kings, 
The  points  of  swords,  tortures,  nor  bulls  of  brass, 
Should  draw  it  from  me. 

Phi.   Then  it  is  no  time 


116  ENGLISH   DRAM  V  HC  P0E1  S. 


To  dally  with  thee  ;  I  will  take  thy  life, 
For  I  do  hate  thee;  I  could  curse  thee  mow. 

Bell.  If  you  do  hate,  you  could  not  curse  me  vyorse  ; 
The  gods  have  not  a  punishment  in  stoic 
Greater  for  me  than  is  your  hate. 

Phi.  Fie,  fie, 
So  young  and  so  dissembling  !  fear'st  thou  not  death  ? 
Can  boys  contemn  that  ? 

Bell.  O,  what  a  boy  is  he 
Can  be  content  to  live  to  be  a  man, 
That  sees  the  best  of  men  thus  passionate, 
Thus  without  reason  ? 

Phi.  Oh,  but  thou  dost  not  know  what  'tis  to  die. 

Bell.  Yes,  I  do  know,  my  lord. 
'Tis  less  than  to  be  born ;  a  lasting  sleep, 
A  quiet  resting  from  all  jealousy  ; 
A  thing  we  all  pursue  ;  I  know  besides 
It  is  but  giving  over  of  a  game 
That  must  be  lost. 

Phi.   But  there  are  pains,  false  boy, 
For  perjur  d  souls  ;  think  but  on  thes<';  and  then 
Thy  heart  will  melt,  and  thou  wilt  utter  all. 

Bell.   May  they  fall  all  upon  me  whilst  I  live, 
If  I  be  perjured,  or  ever  thought 
Of  that  you  charge  me  with  ;  if  I  be  false, 
Send  me  to  suffer  in  those  punishments 
You  speak  of;  kill  me. 

Phi.   O,  what  should  I  do  ? 
Why,  who  can  but  believe  him  ?     He  does  swear 
So  earnestly,  that  if  it  were  not  true, 
The  gods  would  not  endure  him.     Rise,  Bellario, 
Thy  protestations  are  so  deep,  and  thou 
Dost  look  so  truly  when  thou  utter'st  them, 
That  though  1  know  them  false,  as  were  my  hopes, 
I  cannot  urge  thee  further ;  but  thou  wert 
To  blame  to  injure  me,  for  I  must  love 
Thy  honest  looks,  and  take  no  revenge  upon 
Thy  tender  youth  :  a  love  from  me  to  thee     * 


PHILASTER.  117 


Is  firm  whate'er  thou  dost :  it  troubles  me 
That  I  have  call'd  the  blood  out  of  thy  cheeks, 
That  did  so  well  become  thee  :   but,  good  boy, 
Let  me  not  see  thee  more  ;  something  is  done 
That  will  distract  me,  that  will  make  me  mad, 
If  I  behold  thee  ;   if  thou  tcnder'st  me, 
Let  me  not  see  thee. 

Bell.  I  will  fly  as  far 
As  there  is  morning,  ere  I  give  distaste 
To  that  most  honor'd  mind.     But  through  these  tears, 
Shed  at  nn  hopeless  parting,  I  can  see 
A  world  of  treason  practis'd  upon  you, 
And  hex-,  and  me.     Farewell  for  ever  more  ; 
If  you  shall  hear  that  sorrow  struck  me  dead, 
And  after  find  me  loyal,  let  there  be 
A  tear  shed  from  you  in  my  memory, 
And  I  shall  rest  at  peace. 

Bellario,  discovered  to  be  a  Woman,  confesses  the  motive  for  her  disguise 
to  have  been  Love  for  Prince  Philaster. 

My  father  would  oft  speak 

Your  worth  and  virtue,  and  as  I  did  grow 

More  and  more  apprehensive,  I  did  thirst 

To  see  the  man  so  prais'd,  but  yet  all  this 

Was  but  a  maiden  longing,  to  be  lost 

As  soon  as  found,  till  sitting  in  my  window, 

Printing  my  thoughts  in  lawn,  I  saw  a  god 

I  thought  (but  it  was  you)  enter  our  gates ; 

My  blood  flew  out,  and  back  again  as  fast 

As  I  had  puft  it  forth,  and  suck'd  it  in 

Like  breath ;  then  was  I  call'd  away  in  haste 

To  entertain  you.     Never  was  a  man 

Heav'd  from  a  sheep-cot  to  a  sceptre,  rais'd 

So  high  in  thoughts  as  I  ;   you  left  a  kiss 

Upon  these  lips  then,  which  I  mean  to  keep 

From  you  for  ever  ;  I  did  hear  you  talk 

Far  above  singing  ;  after  you  were  gone, 

I  grew  acquainted  with  my  heart,  and  search'd 


US  ENGLISH  DRAMATIC  POETS. 


What  stirr'd  it  so.     Alas !  I  found  it  love, 

Yet  far  from  lust,  for  could  I  have  but  liv'd 

In  presence  of  you,  I  had  had  my  end. 

For  this  I  did  delude  my  noble  father 

With  a  feign'd  pilgrimage,  and  drest  myself 

In  habit  of  a  boy,  and,  for  I  knew 

My  birth  no  match  for  you,  I  was  past  hope 

Of  having  you.     And  understanding  well, 

That  when  I  made  discovery  of  my  sex, 

I  could  not  stay  with  you,  I  made  a  vow 

By  all  the  most  religious  things  a  maid 

Could  call  together,  never  to  be  known, 

Whilst  there  was  hope  to  hide  me  from  men's  eyes, 

For  other  than  I  seem'd  ;  that  I  might  ever 

Abide  with  you  :  then  sate  I  by  the  fount 

Where  first  you  took  me  up.* 

*  The  character  of  Bellario  must  have  been  extremely  popular  in  its 
day.  For  many  years  after  the  date  of  Philaster's  first  exhibition  on  the 
stage,  scarce  a  play  can  be  found  without  one  of  these  women  pages  in  it, 
following  in  the  train  of  some  pre-engaged  lover,  calling  on  the  gods  to  bless 
her  happy  rival  (his  mistress)  whom  no  doubt  she  secretly  curses  in  her 
heart,  giving  rise  to  many  pretty  equivoques  by  the  way  on  the  confusion 
of  sex,  and  either  made  happy  at  last  by  some  surprising  turn  of  fate,  or 
dismissed  with  the  joint  pity  of  the  lovers  and  the  audience.  Our  ances- 
tors seem  to  have  been  wonderfully  delighted  with  these  transformations  of 
sex.  Women's  parts  were  then  acted  by  young  men.  What  an  odd  double 
confusion  it  must  have  made,  to  see  a  boy  play  a  woman  playing  a  man  :  one 
cannot  disentangle  the  perplexity  without  some  violence  to  the  imagination. 

Donne  has  a  copy  of  verses  addrest  to  his  mistress,  dissuading  her  from 
a  resolution,  which  she  seems  to  have  taken  up  from  some  of  these  scenical 
representations,  of  following  him  abroad  as  a  page.  It  is  so  earnest,  so 
weighty,  so  rich  in  poetry,  in  sense,  in  wit,  and  pathos,  that  I  have  thought 
fit  to  insert  it,  as  a  solemn  close  in  future  to  all  such  sickly  fancies  as  he 
there  deprecates.  The  story  of  his  romantic  and  unfortunate  marriage  with 
the  daughter  of  Sir  George  Moore,  the  Lady  here  supposed  to  be  addrest. 
may  be  read  in  Walton's  Lives. 

ELEGY. 
By  our  first  strange  and  fatal  interview, 
By  all  desires  which  thereof  did  ensue, 
By  our  long  striving  hopes,  by  that  remorse 
Which  my  words'  masculine  persuasive  force 


PHIL  ASTER.  119 


Natural  Antipathies. 

Nature  that  loves  not  to  be  questioned 
Why  she  did  this,  or  that,  but  has  her  ends, 

Begot  in  thee,  and  by  the  memory 

Of  hurts,  which  spies  and  rivals  threatened  me, 

I  calmly  beg.     But  by  thy  father's  wrath, 

By  all  pains  which  want  and  divorcement  hath, 

I  conjure  thee  ;  and  all  the  oaths,  which  I 

And  thou  have  sworn  to  seal  joint  constancy, 

T  here  unswear,  and  overswear  them  thus: 

Thou  shalt  not  love  by  means  so  dangerous. 

Temper,  O  fair  love,  love's  impetuous  rage  ; 

Be  my  true  mistress,  not  my  feigned  page. 

I'll  go,  and,  by  thy  kind  leave,  leave  behind 

Thee,  only  worthy  to  nurse  in  my  mind 

Thirst  to  come  back  ;  0,  if  thou  die  before, 

My  soul  from  other  lands  to  thee  shall  soar. 

Thy  (else  almighty)  beauty  cannot  move 

Rage  from  the  seas,  nor  thy  love  teach  them  love, 

Nor  tame  wild  Boreas'  harshness  ;  thou  hast  read 

How  roughly  he  in  pieces  shivered 

The  fair  Orithea,  whom  he  swore  he  lov'd. 

Fall  ill  or  good,  'tis  madness  to  have  prov'd 

Dangers  unurged  ;  feed  on  this  flattery, 

That  absent  lovers  one  in  th'  other  be. 

Dissemble  nothing,  not  a  boy,  nor  change 

Thy  body's  habit,  nor  mind :  be  not  strange 

To  thyself  only.     All  will  spy  in  thy  face 

A  blushing  womanly  discovering  grace. 

Richlyr  cloath'd  apes  are  call'd  apes,  and  as  soon 

Eclips'd  as  bright  we  call  the  moon  the  moon. 

Men  of  France,  changeable  camelions, 

Spittles  of  diseases,  shops  of  fashions, 

Lives'  fuellers,  and  the  rightest  company 

Of  players  which  upon  the  world's  stage  be, 

Will  too  too  quickly  know  thee :  and  alas, 

Th'  indifferent  Italian,  as  we  pass 

His  warm  land,  well  content  to  think  thee  page, 

Will  hunt  thee  with  such  lust,  and  hideous  rage, 

As  Lot's  fair  guests  were  vext.     But  none  of  these, 

Nor  spungy  Aydroptique  Dutch  shall  thee  displease, 

If  thou  stay  here.     0  stay  here  ;  for,  for  thee 

England  is  only  a  worthy  gallery, 

To  walk  in  expectation,  till  from  thence 

Our  greatest  king  call  thee  to  his  presence. 


120  ENGLISH  DRAMATIC  POETS. 


And  knows  she  does  well,  never  gave  the  world 

Two  things  so  opposite,  so  contrary, 

As  he  and  I  am  :  if  a  bowl  of  blood 

Drawn  from  this  arm  of  mine  would  poison  thee 

A  draught  of  his  would  cure  thee. 

Interest  in  Virtue. 

Why,  my  lord,  are  you  so  moved  at  this  ? 

When  any  falls  from  virtue,  I  am  distract, 
1  have  an  interest  in  't. 


CUPID'S    REVENGE :    A  TRAGEDY.     BY  FRANCIS    BEAUMONT 
AND  JOHN  FLETCHER. 

Lencippus,  the  King's  Son,  takes  to  mistress  Bacha,  a  Widow ;  but  bei?ig 
questioned  by  his  Father,  to  preserve  her  honor,  swears  that  she  is  chaste. 
The  old  King  admires  her,  and  on  the  credit  of  that  Oath,  while  his 
Son  is  absent, marries  her.  Leucippus,when  he  discovers  the  dreadful 
consequences  of  the  deceit  which  he  had  used  to  his  Father,  counsels  his 
friend  Ismenus  never  to  speak  a  falsehood  in  any  case. 

Leu.  My  sin,  Ismenus,  has  wrought  all  this  ill : 
And  I  beseech  thee  to  be  warn'd  by  me, 
And  do  not  lie,  if  any  man  should  ask  thee 
But  how  thou  dost,  or  what  o'clock  His  now, 
Be  sure  thou  do  not  lie,  make  no  excuse 
For  him  that  is  most  near  thee  ;  never  let 
The  most  officious  falsehood  'scape  thy  tongue  ; 
For  they  above  (that  are  entirely  truth) 

When  I  am  gone,  dream  me  some  happiness  ; 
Nor  let  thy  looks  our  long  hid  love  confess ; 
Nor  praise,  nor  dispraise  me,  nor  bless,  nor  curse, 
Openly  love's  force ;  nor  in  bed  fright  thy  nurse 
With  midnights'  startings,  crying  out,  oh,  oh, 
Nurse,  0  my  love  is  slain,  I  saw  him  go 
O'er  the  white  Alps  alone ;  I  saw  him,  I, 
Assail'd,  fight,  taken,  stabb'd,  bleed,  fall,  and  die 
Augur  me  better  chance,  except  dread  Jove 
Think  it  enough  for  me  to  have  had  thv  love. 


CUPID'S  REVENGE.  121 


Will  make  that  seed  which  thou  hast  sown  of  lies, 

Yield  miseries  a  thousand  fold 

Upon  thine  head,  as  they  have  done  on  mine. 

Leucippus  and  his  wicked  Mother-in-law,  Eacha,  are  left  alone  together 
for  thr  first  time  after  her  marriage  with  the  King,  his  Father. 

Bach.  He  stands 
As  if  he  grew  there,  with  his  eyes  on  earth. 
Sir.  you  and  I  when  we  were  last  together 
Kept  not  this  distance,  as  we  were  afraid 
I  >f  blasting  by  ourselves. 

Leu.   Madam,  'tis  true, 
Heaven  pardon  it. 

Bach.  Amen,  sir  :  you  may  think 
That  1  have  done  you  wrong  in  this  strange  marriage. 

Leu.   'Tis  past  now. 

Bach.  But  it  was  no  fault  of  mine  : 
The  world  had  call'd  me  mad,  had  I  refus'd 
The  king :  nor  laid  1  any  train  to  catch  him, 
It  was  your  own  oaths  did  it. 

Leu.   'Tis  a  truth, 
That  takes  my  sleep  away  ;  but  would  to  heaven, 
If  it  had  so  been  pleas'd,  you  had  refus'd  him, 
Though  I  had  gratified  that  courtesy 
With  having  you  myself:  but  since  'tis  thus, 
I  do  beseech  you  that  you  will  be  honest 
From  henceforth ;  and  not  abuse  his  credulous  age, 
Which  you  may  easily  do.     As  for  myself, 
W  hat  I  can  say,  you  know  alas  too  well, 
Is  tied  within  me  ;   here  it  will  sit  like  lead, 
But  shall  offend  no  other,  it  will  pluck  me 
Back  from  my  entrance  into  any  mirth, 
As  if  a  servant  came  and  whisper'd  with  me 
Of  some  friend's  death  :  but  I  will  bear  myself 
To  you,  with  all  the  due  obedience 
A  son  owes  to  a  mother  ;  more  than  this 
Is  not  in  me,  but  I  must  leave  the  rest 
To  the  just  gods,  who  in  their  blessed  time, 


122  ENGLISH  DRAMATIC  POETS. 

When  they  have  given  me  punishment  enough 
For  my  rash  sin,  will  mercifully  find 
As  unexpected  means  to  ease  my  grief 
As  they  did  now  to  bring  it. 

Bach.   Grown  so  godly  ? 
This  must  not  be,  and  I  will  be  to  you 
No  other  than  a  natural  mother  ought ; 
And  for  my  honesty,  so  you  will  swear 
Never  to  urge  me,  I  shall  keep  it  safe 
From  any  other. 

Leu.  Bless  me,  I  should  urge  you  ! 

Bach.  Nay,  but  swear  then,  that  I  may  be  at  peace, 
For  I  do  feel  a  weakness  in  myself 
That  can  deny  you  nothing  ;  if  you  tempt  me 
I  shall  embrace  sin  as  it  were  a  friend, 
And  run  to  meet  it. 

Leu.  If  you  knew  how  far 
It  were  from  me,  you  would  not  urge  an  oath. 
But  for  your  satisfaction,  when  I  tempt  you 

Bach.  Swear  not.     I  cannot  move  him.     This  sad  talk 
Of  things  past  help,  does  not  become  us  well. 
Shall  I  send  one  for  my  musicians,  and  we'll  dance  * 

Leu.  Dance,  madam  ? 

Bach.  Yes,  a  lavolta. 

Leu.  I  cannot  dance,  madam. 

Bach.  Then  let's  be  merry. 

Leu.  I  am  as  my  fortunes  bid  me. 
Do  not  you  see  me  sour  1 

Bach.  Yes. 
And  why  think  you  I  smile  ? 

Leu.  I  am  so  far  from  any  joy  myself, 
I  cannot  fancy  a  cause  of  mirth. 

Bach.  I'll  tell  you.     We  are  alone. 

Leu.  Alone ! 

Bach.  Yes. 

Leu.   'Tis  true  :  what  then  ? 

Bach.  What  then? 
You  make  my  smiling  now  break  into  laughter  : 


CUPID'S  REVENGE.  123 


What  think  you  is  to  be  done  then  ? 

Leu.  We  should  pray  to  heaven  for  mercy. 
Bach.  Pray !  that  were  a  way  indeed 
To  pass  the  time. 

Leu.  I  dare  not  think  I  understand  you. 
Bach.  I  must  teach  you  then.     Come  kiss  me. 
Leu.  Kiss  you  ? 
Bach.  Yes,  be  not  asham'd  : 
lou  did  it  not  yourself,  I  will  forgive  you. 

Leu.  Keep,  you  displeased  gods,  the  due  respect 
I  ought  to  bear  unto  this  wicked  woman, 
As  she  is  now  my  mother  :  haste  within  me, 
Lest  I  add  sins  to  sins,  till  no  repentance 
Will  cure  me. 

Bach.  Leave  these  melancholy  moods, 
That  I  may  swear  thee  welcome  on  thy  lips 
A  thousand  times. 

Leu.  Pray  leave  this  wicked  talk ; 
You  do  not  know  to  what  my  father's  wrong 
May  urge  me. 

Bach.  I'm  careless,  and  do  weigh 
The  world,  my  life,  and  all  my  after  hopes, 
Nothing  without  thy  love  :  mistake  me  not, 
Thy  love,  as  I  have  had  it,  free  and  open 
As  wedlock  is  within  itself,  what  say  you  ? 
Leu.  Nothing. 

Bach.  Pity  me,  behold  a  duchess 
Kneels  for  thy  mercy.     What  answer  will  you  give  1 

Leu.  They  that  can  answer  must  be  less  amaz'd 
Than  I  am  now :  you  see  my  tears  deliver 
My  meaning  to  you. 

Bach.  Shall  I  be  contemn  d  ? 
Thou  art  a  beast,  worse  than  a  savage  beast, 
To  let  a  lady  kneel. 

Leu.  'Tis  your  will,  heaven  :  but  let  me  bear  me 
Like  myself,  however  she  does. 

Bach.  How  fond  was  I 
To  beg  thy  love !     I'll  force  thee  to  my  will. 


194  ENGLISH  DRAMATIC  POETS. 

Dosl  thou  not  know  that  I  can  make  the  king 
Doal  as  my  list?  yield  quickly,  or,  by  heaven, 
I'll  have  thee  kepi  in  prison  for  my  purpose. 

Leu.  All  you  have  nam'd,  but  making  of  me  sin 
With  you,  you  may  command,  but  never  that: 

what  you  will,  I'll  hear  you  as  becomes  me : 
If  you  speak,  I  will  not  follow  your  counsel, 
Neither  will  I  tell  the  world  to  your  disgrace, 
But  give  you  the  just  honor 
That  is  due  from  me  to  my  father's  wife. 

Bach.  Lord,  how  full  of  wise  formality  you're  grown 
Of  late  :  but  you  were  telling  me, 
You  could  have  wish'd  that  I  had  married  you  ; 
If  you  will  swear  so  yet,  I'll  make  away 
The  king. 

Leu.  You  are  a  strumpet. 

Bach.  Nay  I  care  not 
For  all  your  railings :  they  will  batter  wralls 
And  take  in  towns  as  soon  as  trouble  me : 
Tell  him  ;  I  care  not ;  I  shall  undo  you  only. 
Which  is  no  matter. 

Leu.  I  appeal  to  you, 
Still,  and  for  ever,  that  are  and  cannot  be  other. — 
Madam,  I  see  'tis  in  your  power 
To  work  your  will  on  him  :  and  I  desire  you 
To  lay  what  trains  you  will  for  my  wish'd  death. 
But  suffer  him  to  find  his  quiet  grave 
In  peace ;  alas  he  never  did  you  wrong ; 
And  farther  I  beseech  you  pardon  me 
For  the  ill  word  I  gave  you,  for  however 
You  may  deserve,  it  became  not  me 
To  call  you  so,  but  passion  urges  tw; 
1  know  not  whither ;  my  heart  break  now,  and  ease  me  ever. 


THE  FAITHFUL  SHEPHERDESS.  125 


THE  FAITHFUL  SHEPHERDESS.  BY  JOHN  FLETCHER. 

Clorin,  a  Shepherdess,  watching  by  the  Grave  of  her  Lover,  is  found  by 

a  Satyr. 

dor.  Hail  holy  earth,  whose  cold  arms  do  embrace 
The  truest  man  that  ever  fed  his  flocks 
By  the  fat  plains  of  fruitful  Thessaly. 
Thus  I  salute  thy  grave,  thus  do  I  pay 
.My  early  vows,  and  tribute  of  mine  eyes, 
To  thy  still  loved  ashes ;  thus  I  free 
Myself  from  all  ensuing  heats  and  fires 
Of  love:  all  sports,  delights,  and  jolly  games, 
That  shepherds  hold  full  dear,  thus  put  I  ofF. 
Now  no  more  shall  these  smooth  brows  be  begin 
With  youthful  coronals,  and  lead  the  dance. 
No  more  the  company  of  fresh  lair  maids 
\iiii  v  anton  shepherds  be  to  me  delightful : 
Nor  the  shrill  pleasing  sound  of  merry  pipes 
Under  some  shady  dell,  when  the  cool  wind 
Plays  on  the  leaves  :  all  be  far  away, 
Sine,   thou  ail  far  away,  by  whose  dear  side 
How  often  have  I  sate  crown'd  with  fresh  flowers 
For  summer's  queen,  whilst  every  shephei'd's  boy 
Puts  on  his  lusty  green,  with  gaudy  hook, 
And  hanging  script  of  finest  cordevan. 
But  thou  art  gone,  and  these  are  gone  with  thee, 
And  all  are  dead  but  thy  dear  memory  : 
That  shall  out-live  thee,  and  shall  ever  spring, 
Whilst  there  are  pipes,  or  jolly  shepherds  sing. 
And  here  will  I  in  honor  of  thy  love, 
Dwell  by  thy  ^rave,  forgetting  all  those  joys 
That  former  times  made  precious  to  mine  eyes, 
Only  rememb'ring  what  my  youth  did  gain 
In  the  dark  hidden  virtuous  use  of  herbs, 
That  will  I  practise,  and  as  freely  give 
All  my  endeavors,  as  I  gain'd  them  free. 
Of  all  green  wounds  I  know  the  remedies 
In  men  or  cattle,  be  they  stung  with  snakes, 


126  KNGLISH  DRAMATIC  POETS. 

Or  charm'd  with  powerful  words  of  wicked  art; 
Or  be  they  love-sick,  or  through  too  much  heat 
Grown  wild,  or  lunatic  ;  their  eyes,  or  ears, 
Thick'ned  with  misty  film  of  dulling  rheum  : 
These  I  can  cure,  such  secret  virtue  lies 
In  herbs  applied  by  a  virgin's  hand. 
My  meat  shall  be  what  these  wild  woods  afford. 
Berries  and  chestnuts,  plantains,  on  whose  cheeks 
The  sun  sits  smiling,  and  the  lofty  fruit 
Pull'd  from  the  fair  head  of  the  straight-grown  pine. 
On  these  I  '11  feed  with  free  content  and  rest, 
When  night  shall  blind  the  world,  by  thy  side  blest. 

A  Satyr  enters. 

Satyr.  Through  yon  same  bending  plain 
That  flings  his  arms  down  to  the  main, 
And  through  these  thick  woods  have  I  run. 
Whose  bottom  never  kist  the  sun. 
Since  the  lusty  spring  began 
All  to  please  my  master  Pan, 
Have  I  trotted  without  rest 
To  get  him  fruit ;  for  at  a  feast 
He  entertains  this  coming  night 
His  paramour  the  Syrinx  bright : 
But  behold  a  fairer  sight ! 
By  that  heavenly  form  of  thine, 
Brightest  fair,  thou  art  divine, 
Sprung  from  great  immortal  race 
Of  the  gods,  for  in  thy  face 
Shines  more  awful  majesty, 
Than  dull  weak  mortality 
Dare  with  misty  eyes  behold, 
And  live  :  therefore  on  this  mold 
Lowly  do  I  bend  my  knee 
In  worship  of  thy  deity. 
Deign  it,  goddess,  from  my  hand 
To  receive  whate'er  this  land 
From  her  fertile  womb  doth  send 


THE  FAITHFUL  SHEPHERDESS.  12? 


Of  her  choice  fruits  :  and  but  lend 

Relief  to  that  the  Satyr  tells, 

Fairer  by  the  famous  wells 

To  this  present  day  ne'er  grew, 

Never  better,  nor  more  true. 

Here  be  grapes  whose  lusty  blood 

Is  the  learned  poet's  good, 

Swe<  ter  yet  did  never  crown 

The  head  of  Bacchus  ;  nuts  more  brown 

Than  the  squirrels  teeth  that  crack  them  : 

Deign,  O  fairest  fair,  to  take  them  : 

For  these,  black-eyed  Driope 

Bath  oftentimes  commanded  me 

With  my  clasped  knee  to  climb. 

See  how  well  the  lusty  time 

Hath  deckt  their  rising  cheeks  in  red, 

Such  as  on  your  lips  is  spread. 

Here  be  berries  for  a  queen, 

Some  be  red,  some  be  green, 

These  are  of  that  luscious  meat 

The  great  god  Pan  himself  doth  eat: 

All  these,  and  what  the  woods  can  yield, 

The  hanging  mountain,  or  the  field, 

I  freely  offer,  and  ere  long 

Will  bring  vou  more,  more  sweet  and  strong  ; 

Till  when,  humbly  leave  I  take, 

Lest  the  great  Pan  do  awake 

That  sleeping  lies  in  a  deep  glade, 

Under  a  broad  beeches  shade. 

I  must  go,  I  must  run, 

Swifter  than  the  fiery  sun.  {Exit, 

Clor.  And  all  my  fears  go  with  thee 
What  greatness,  or  what  private  hidden  power, 
Is  there  in  me  to  draw  submission 
From  this  rude  man  and  beast?  sure  I  am  mortal  ; 
The  daughter  of  a  shepherd  ;  he  was  mortal, 
And  she  that  bore  me  mortal  ;  prick  my  hand 
And  it  will  bleed  :   a  fever  shakes  me,  and 


198  ENGLISH  DRAMATIC  POETS. 

The  self-same  wind  thai  makes  the  young  lambs  shrink, 
Makes  me  a-cold  :  my  fear  says  1  am  mortal: 
N.  1 1  1  have  heard  (my  mother  told  it  me) 

Ami  now  1  do  believe  it,  if  I  keep 

My  virgin  flower  uncropt,  pure,  chaste,  and  fair; 

No  goblin,  wood-god,  fairy,  elf,  or  fiend, 

Satyr,  or  other  power  that  haunts  the  groves, 

Shall  hurt  my  body,  or  by  vain  illusion 

Draw  me  to  wander  after  idle  fires, 

Or  voices  calling  me  in  dead  of  night 

To  make  mo  follow,  and  so  tole  me  on 

Through  mire,  and  standing  pools,  to  find  my  ruin. 

'  I1      why  should  this  rough  thing,  who  never  knew 

Manners  nor  smooth  humanity,  whose  heats 

rougher  than  himself,  and  more  misshapen, 
Thus  mildly  kneel  to  me  ? — Sure  there's  a  power 
In  that  great  name  of  Virgin,  that  binds  fast 
AH  rude  uncivil  bloods,  all  appetites 
That  break  their  confines.     Then,  strong  Chastity. 

hou  my  strongest  guard  ;   for  here  I  ;11  dwell 
In  opposition  against  fate  and  hell. 

Perigot  and  Amoret  aj>point  to  meet  at  the  Virtuous  Well. 

Peri.   Stay,  gentle  Amoret,  thou  fair-brow'd  maid. 
Thy  shepherd  prays  thee  stay,  that  holds  thee  dear. 
Equal  with  his  soul's  good. 

Amo.  Speak,  I  give 
Thee  freedom,  shepherd,  and  thy  tongue  be  still 
The  same  it  ever  was,  as  free  from  ill, 
As  he  whose  conversation  never  knew 
The  court  or  city,  be  thou  ever  true. 

Pen.   When  I  fall  off  from  my  affection, 
Or  mingle  my  clean  thoughts  with  ill  desires, 
First  let  our  great  God  cease  to  keep  my  flocks, 
That  being  left  alone  without  a  guard. 
The  wolf,  or  winter's  rage,  or  summer's  great  heat, 
And  want  of  water,  rots,  or  what  to  us 
Of  ill  is  vet  unknown,  full  speedily. 


THE  FAITHFUL  SHEPHERDESS.  129 

And  in  theiv  general  ruin,  let  me  feel. 

Amo.  I  pray  thee,  gentle  shepherd,  wish  not  so: 
I  do  believe  then,  -'tis  as  hard  for  me 
To  think  thee  false,  and  harder  than  for  thee 
To  hold  me  foul. 

Peri.  O  you  are  fairer  far 
Than  the  chaste  blushing  morn,  or  that  fair  star 
That  guides  the  wand'ring  sea-men  through  the  deep, 
Straighter  than  straightest  pine  upon  the  steep 
Head  of  an  aged  mountain,  and  more  white 
Than  the  new  milk,  we  strip  before  day-light 
From  the  full-freighted  bao;s  of  our  fair  flocks. 
Your  hair  more  beauteous  than  those  hanging  locks 
Of  young  Apollo. 

Amo.  Shepherd,  be  not  lost, 
Y'  are  sail'd  too  far  already  from  the  coast 
Of  our  discourse. 

Peri.  Did  vou  not  tell  me  once 
I  should  not  love  alone,  I  should  not  lose 
Those  many  passions,  vows,  and  holy  oaths, 
I'  ve  sent  to  heaven  ?  did  you  not  give  your  hand, 
Even  that  fair  hand,  in  hostage  ?     Do  not  then 
Give  back  again  those  sweets  to  other  men, 
You  yourself  vow'd  were  mine. 

A?no.  Shepherd,  so  far  as  maiden's  modesty 
May  give  assurance,  I  am  once  more  thine. 
Once  more  I  give  my  hand  ;  be  ever  free 
From  that  great  foe  to  faith,  foul  jealousy. 

Peri.  I  take  it  as  my  best  good  ;  and  desire, 
For  stronger  confirmation  of  our  love, 
To  meet  this  happy  night  in  that  fair  grove, 
Where  all  true  shepherds  have  rewarded  been 
For  their  long  service.     Say,  sweet,  shall  it  hold  ? 

Amo.  Dear  friend,  you  must  not  blame  me  if  I  make 
A  doubt  of  what  the  silent  nighl  may  do- 
Maids  must  be  fearful. 

Peri.  O  do  not  wrong  my  honest  simple  truth, 
Myself  and  my  affi  ctions  are  as  pure 

I'ART    I!.  10 


!::.)  I-'.N<;USU    IM;  \MATIC  POETS. 


As  those  chaste  flames  thai  burn  before  the  shrine 
Of  the  great  Dian  :  only  my  intent 
To  draw  you  thither,  was  to  plight  our  troths, 
With  interchange  of  mutual  chaste  embraces, 

\ii.l  cerei lious  tying  ofourselv*  s. 

For  to  that  holy  wood  is  consecrate 

A  Virtuous  Well,  about  whose  flowery  banks 

The  nimble-footed  fairies  dance  their  rounds 

By  the  pale  moon-shine,  dipping  oftentimes 

Their  stolen  children,  so  to  make  them  free 

From  dying  flesh,  and  dull  mortality. 

By  this  fair  fount  hath  many  a  shepherd  sworn 

And  given  away  his  freedom,  many  a  troth 

Been  plight,  which  neither  envy  or  old  time 

Could  ever  break,  with  many  a  chaste  kiss  given 

In  hope  of  coming  happiness  :  by  this 

Fresh  fountain  many  a  blushing  maid 

Hath  crown'd  the  head  of  her  long  loved  shepherd 

With  gaudy  flowers,  whilst  he  happy  sung 

Lays  of  his  love  and  dear  captivity. 

There  grow  all  herbs  fit  to  cool  looser  flames 

Our  sensual  parts  provoke  ;  chiding  our  bloods, 

And  quenching  by  their  power  those  hidden  sparks 

That  else  would  break  out,  and  provoke  our  sense 

To  open  fires — so  virtuous  is  that  place. 

Then,  gentle  shepherdess,  believe  and  grant ; 

In  troth  it  fits  not  with  that  face  to  scant 

Your  faithful  shepherd  of  those  chaste  desires 

He  ever  aim'd  at. 

Amo.  Thou  hast  prevail'd  ;  farewell  ;  this  coming  night 
Shall  crown  thy  chaste  hopes  with  long  wish'd  delight. — 

Thenot,  admiring  the  constancy  of  Clorin  to  her  dead  Lover,  rejects  the 

suit  of  Cloe. 
Cloe.  Shepherd,  I  pray  thee  stay,  where  hast  thou  been, 
Or  whither  go'st  thou  ?     Here  be  woods  as  green 
As  any,  air  likewise  as  fresh  and  sweet, 
As  where  smooth  Zephyrus  plays  on  the  fleet 
Face  of  the  curled  streams,  with  flowers  as  many 


THE  FAITHFUL  SHEPHERDESS.  131 


As  the  young  spring  gives,  and  as  choice  as  any. 
Here  be  all  new  delights,  cool  streams  and  wells, 
Arbors  o'ergrown  with  woodbines,  caves  and  dells, 
Choose  where  thou  wilt,  whilst  I  sit  by  and  sing, 
Or  gather  rushes  to  make  many  a  ring 
For  thy  long  ringers  :  tell  thee  tales  of  love, 
I  tow  the  pale  Phoebe,  hunting  in  a  grove, 
First  saw  the  boy  Endymion,  from  whose  eyes 
She  took  eternal  tire  that  never  dies  ; 
How  she  convey'd  him  softly  in  a  sleep, 
His  temples  bound  with  poppy,  to  the  steep 
Head  of  old  Latmus,  where  she  stoops  each  night, 
Gilding  the  mountains  with  her  brother's  light, 
To  kiss  her  sweetest. 

The.  Far  from  me  are  these 
Hot  flashes,  bred  from  wanton  heat  and  ease. 
I  have  forgot  what  love  and  loving  meant  ; 
Rhimes,  songs,  and  merry  rounds,  that  oft  are  sent 
To  the  soft  ears  of  maids,  are  strange  to  me ; 
Only  I  live  to  admire  a  chastity, 
That  neither  pleasing  age,  smooth  tongue,  or  gold, 
Could  ever  break  upon,  so  pure  a  mold 
Is  that  her  mind  was  cast  in  ;   'tis  to  her 
I  only  am  reserv'd  ;  she  is  my  form  I  stir 
By,  breathe  and  move,  'tis  she  and  only  she 
Can  make  me  happy,  or  give  me  misery. 

Cloe.  Good  shepherd,  may  a  stranger  crave  to  know 
To  whom  this  dear  observance  you  do  owe  ? 

T/e*.  You  may,  and  by  her  virtue  learn  to  square 
And  level  out  your  life  ;  for  to  be  fair 
And  nothing  virtuous,  only  fits  the  eye 
Of  gaudy  youth  and  swelling  vanity. 
Then  know,  she  's  call'd  the  Virgin  of  the  Grove, 
She  that  hath  long  since  buried  her  chaste  love, 
And  now  lives  by  his  grave,  for  whose  dear  soul 
She  hath  vow'd  herself  into  the  holy  roll 
Of  strict  virginity  ;    'tis  her  1  so  admire, 
Not  anv  looser  blood,  or  new  desire. 


132  <;lish  dramatic  poets. 

Tin  nut  loves  Cloriii  yet  fears  to  gain  his  suit. 

Clor.  Shepherd,  how  cam'st  thou  hither  to  this  place  ? 
No  way  is  trodden  ;  all  the  verdant  grass 
The  spring  shot  up,  stands  yet  unbruised  here 
Of  any  foot,  only  the  dappled  deer 
Far  from  the  feared  sound  of  crooked  horn 
Dwells  in  this  fastness. 

Tlir.  Chaster  than  the  morn, 
I  have  not  wand'red,  or  by  strong  illusion 
Into  this  virtuous  place  have  made  intrusion  : 
But  hither  am  I  come  (believe  me,  fair), 
To  seek  you  out,  of  whose  great  good  the  air 
Is  full,  and  strongly  labors,  whilst  the  sound 
Breaks  against  heaven,  and  drives  into  a  stound 
The  amazed  shepherd,  that  such  virtue  can 
Be  resident  in  lesser  than  a  man. 

Clor.  If  any  art  I  have,  or  hidden  skill, 
May  cure  thee  of  disease,  or  fester'd  ill, 
Whose  grief  or  greenness  to  another's  eye 
May  seem  unpossible  of  remedy. 
I  dare  yet  undertake  it. 

The.   'Tis  no  pain 
I  suffer  through*  disease,  no  beating  vein 
Conveys  infection  dangerous  to  the  heart, 
No  part  imposthumed,  to  be  cured  by  art, 
This  body  holds,  and  yet  a  feller  grief 
Than  ever  skilful  hand  did  give  relief 
D  ■  •  lis  on  my  soul,  and  may  be  heal'd  by  you, 
Fair  beauteous  virgin. 

Clor.  Then,  shepherd,  let  me  sue 
To  know  thy  grief;  that  man  yet  never  knew 
The  way  to  health,  that  durst  not  show  his  sore. 

The.  Then,  fairest,  know  I  love  you. 

Clor.  Swain,  no  more. 
Thou  hast  abused  the  strictness  of  this  place, 
And  offer'd  sacrilegious  foul  disgrace 
To  the  sweet  rest  of  these  interred  bones ; 
For  fear  of  whose  ascending,  flv  at  once, 


THE  FAITHFUL  SHEPHERDESS.  133 


Thou  and  thy  idle  passions,  that  the  sight 

Of  death  and  speeds   vengeance  may  not  fright 

Thy  very  soul  with  horror. 

The.  Let  me  not 
(Thou  all  perfection)  merit  such  a  blot 
For  my  true  zealous  faith. 
Clor.  Darest  thou  abide 
To  see  this  holy  earth  at  once  divide 
And  give  her  body  up  ?  for  sure  it  will, 
If  thou  pursu'st  with  wanton  flames  to  fill 
This  hallow *d  place  ;  therefore  repent  and  go, 
Whilst  I  with  praise  appease  his  ghost  below  ; 
That  else  would  tell  thee,  what  it  were  to  be 
A  rival  in  that  virtuous  love  that  he 
Embraces  yet. 

The.   'Tis  not  the  white  or  red 
Inhabits  in  your  check,  that  thus  can  wed 
My  mind  to  adoration  ;  nor  your  eye, 
Though  it  be  full  and  fair,  your  forehead  high, 
And  smooth  as  Pelops'  shoulder  :  not  the  smile, 
Lies  watching  in  those  dimples  to  beguile 
The  easy  soul  ;  your  hands  and  fingers  long 
With  veins  enamel'd  richly  ;  nor  your  tongue, 
Though  it  spoke  sweeter  than  Arion's  harp ; 
Your  hair,  wove  into  many  a  curious  warp, 
Able  in  endless  error  to  enfold 
The  wand 'ring  soul  ;  nor  the  true  perfect  mold 
Of  all  your  body,  which  as  pure  doth  show 
In  maiden  whiteness  as  the  Alpsian  snow  : 
All  these,  were  but  your  constancy  away, 
Would  please  me  less  than  a  black  stormy  day 
The  wretched  seaman  toiling  though  the  deep. 
But  whilst  this  honor'd  strictness  you  dare  keep, 
Though  all  the  plagues  that  e'er  begotten  were 
In  the  gnat  womb  of  air,  were  settled  here, 
In  opposition,  I  would,  like  the  tree, 
Shake  off  those  drops  of  weakness,  and  be  free, 
Even  in  the  arm  of  danger. 


134  ENGLISH  DRAMATIC  POETS. 

Clor.  Wouldst  thou  have 
M<    raise  again  (fond  man)  from  silent  grave, 
Those  sparks  that  long  ago  were  huried  here 
With  my  dead  friend's  cold  ashes  ? 

The.  Dearest  dear, 
I  dare  not  ask  it,  nor  you  must  not  grant. 
Stand  strongly  to  your  vow,  and  do  not  faint. 
Remember  how  he  lov'd  ye  ;  and  be  still 
The  same,  opinion  speaks  ye  ;  let  not  will, 
And  that  great  god  of  women,  appetite, 
Set  up  your  blood  again  ;  do  not  invite 
Desire  and  Fancy  from  their  long  exile, 
To  set  them  once  more  in  a  pleasing  smile, 
Be  like  a  rock  made  firmly  up  'gainst  all 
The  power  of  angry  heaven,  or  the  strong  fall 
Of  Neptune's  battery;  if  ye  yield,  I  die 
To  all  affection  :   'tis  that  loyalty, 
Ye  tie  unto  this  grave,  I  so  admire  ; 
And  yet  there's  something  else  I  would  desire 
If  you  would  hear  me,  but  withal  deny. 
O  Pan,  what  an  uncertain  destiny 
Hangs  over  all  my  hopes !     I  will  retire, 
For  if  I  longer  stay,  this  double  fire 
Will  lick  my  life  up. 

Clor.  The  gods  give  quick  release 
And  happy  cure  unto  thy  hard  disease. 

The  God  of  the  River  rises  with  Jlmoiet  in  his  arms,  whom  the  sullen 
Shepherd  has  flung  wounded  into  his  spring. 

River  God.  What  powerful  charms  my  streams  do  bring 
Back  again  unto  their  spring, 
With  such  force,  that  I  their  god, 
Three  times  striking  with  my  rod, 
Could  not  keep  them  in  their  ranks  ? 
My  fisiies  shoot  into  the  banks, 
There's  not  one  that  stays  and  feeds, 
All  have  hid  them  in  the  weeds. 
Here's  a  mortal  almost  dead 


THE  FAITHFUL  SHEPHERDESS.  135 


Fal'n  into  my  river  head, 
Hallow'd  so  with  many  a  spell, 
That  till  now  none  ever  fell. 
'Tis  a  female  young  and  clear, 
Cast  in  by  some  ravisher. 
See  upon  her  breast  a  wound, 
On  which  there  is  no  plaister  bound. 
Yet  she's  warm,  her  pulses  beat, 
'Tis  a  sisn  of  life  and  heat. 
If  thou  be'st  a  virgin  pure, 
I  can  give  a  present  cure. 
Take  a  drop  into  thy  wound 
From  my  watry  locks,  more  round 
Than  orient  pearl,  and  far  more  pure 
Than  unchaste  flesh  may  endure. 
See  she  pants,  and  from  her  flesh 
The  warm  blood  gusheth  out  afresh. 
She  is  an  unpolluted  maid  ; 
I  must  have  this  bleeding  staid. 
From  my  banks  I  pluck  this  flower 
With  holy  hand,  whose  virtuous  power 
Is  at  once  to  heal  and  draw. 
The  blood  returns.     I  never  saw 
A  fairer  mortal.     Now  doth  break 
Her  deadly  slumber.     Virgin,  speak. 

A/no.  Who  hath  restored  my  sense,  given  me  new  breath. 
And  brought  me  back  out  of  the  arms  of  death  ? 

River  God.  I  have  heal'd  thy  wounds. 

Amo.   Ah  me  ! 

River  God.  Fear  not  him  that  succor'd  thee. 
I  am  this  fountain's  god ;  below 
My  waters  to  a  river  grow, 
And  "twixt  two  banks  with  osiers  set, 
That  only  prosper  in  the  wet, 
Through  the  meadows  do  they  glide, 
Wheeling  still  on  every  side, 
Somi  times  winding  round  about, 
To  find  the  evenesl  channel  o.ui  ; 


136  EIS   !  DRAMATIC  POETS. 


And  if  thou  wilt  go  with  me, 

Leaving  mortal  company, 

In  the  cool  streams  shalt  thou  lie, 

Free  from  harm  as  well  as  I. 

I  will  give  thee  fur  thy  food, 

No  fish  that  useth  in  the  mud, 

But  trout  and  pike  that  love  to  swim 

Where  the  gravel  from  the  brim 

Through  the  pure  streams  may  be  seen. 

Orient  pearl  fit  for  a  queen, 

Will  I  give  thy  love  to  win, 

And  a  shell  to  keep  them  in. 

Not  a  fish  in  all  my  brook 

That  shall  disobey  thy  look, 

But  when  thou  wilt,  come  sliding  by, 

And  from  thy  white  hand  take  a  fly. 

And  to  make  thee  understand, 

How  I  can  my  waves  command, 

They  shall  bubble  whilst  I  sing 

Sweeter  than  the  silver  spring.  [Sin^s. 

Bo  not  fear  to  put  thy  feet 
Naked  in  the  rivers  sweet  : 

Think  not  leach,  or  newt,  or  toad, 

Will  bite  thy  foot,  lohen  thou  hast  trod  ; 
Nor  let  the  water  rising  high, 
As  thou  wadest  in,  make  thee  cry 
And  sob,  but  ever  live  with  me, 
And  not  a  wave  shall  trouble  thee. 

Amo.   Immortal  power,  that  rulest  this  holy  flood  ; 
I  know  myself  unworthy  to  be  woo'd 
By  thee,  a  god :  for  ere  this,  but  for  thee, 
I  should  have  shown  my  weak  mortality. 
Besides,  by  holy  oath  betwixt  us  twain, 
I  am  betroth'd  unto  a  shepherd  swain, 
Whose  comely  face,  I  know,  the  gods  above 
May  make  me  leave  to  see,  but  not  to  love. 

River  God.  May  he  prove  to  thee  as  true. — 


THE  FA]  i'iii'lh  SHEPHERDESS.  i37 


Fairest  virgin,  now  adieu, 

I  must  make  my  waters  fly, 

Lest  they  leave  their  channels  dry, 

And  heasts  that  come  unto  the  spring 

Miss  their  morning's  watering  : 

"Which  I  would  not,  for  of  late 

All  the  neighbor  people  sate 

On  my  banks,  and  from  the  fold 

Two  white  lambs  of  three  weeks  old 

Ofler'd  to  my  deity  : 

For  which  this  year  they  shall  be  free 

From  raging  floods,  that  as  they  pass 

Leave  their  gravel  in  the  grass  ; 

Nor  shall  their  meads  be  overflown, 

When  their  grass  is  newly  mown. 

A/no.   For  thy  kindness  to  me  shown, 
Never  from  thy  banks  be  blown 
Any  tree,  with  windy  force, 
Cross  thy  streams  to  stop  thy  course  : 
May  no  beast  that  comes  to  drink, 
With  his  horns  cast  down  thy  brink  ; 
May  none  that  for  thy  fish  do  look, 
Cut  thy  banks  to  damm  thy  brook  : 
Bare- foot  may  no  neighbor  wade 
In  thy  cool  streams,  wife  nor  maid, 
When  the  spawn  on  stones  do  lie, 
To  wash  their  hemp,  and  spoil  the  fry. 

River  God.   Thanks,  virgin,  I  must  down  again, 
Thy  wound  will  put  thee  to  no  pain  : 
Wonder  not  so  soon  'tis  gone  ; 
A  holy  hand  was  laid  upon. 

[If  all  the  parts  of  this  Play  had  been  in  unison  with  these  innocent 
scenes,  and  sweet  lyric  intermixtures,  it  had  been  a  Poem  fit  to  vie  with 
Comus  or  the  Arcadia,  to  have  been  put  into  the  hands  of  boya  and  virgins, 
to  have  made  matter  for  young  dreams,  like  the  loves  of  Ilermia  and 
Lysander.  But  a  spot  is  on  the  face  of  this  moon. — Nothing  shurt  of  in- 
fatuation could  have  driven  Fletcher  upon  mixing  up  with  this  blessedness 
such  an  ugly  deformity  as  Cloe :  the  wanton  shepherdess  !     Coarse  words  do 


13S  ENGLISH  DRAMATIC  POETS. 

uut  wound  the  cars;  but  a  character  of  lewdness  affronts  the  mind. 
Female  lewdness  at  once  shocks  nature  and  morality.  If  Cloe  was  meant 
to  set  off  Clorin  by  contrast,  Fletcher  should  have  known  that  such  weeds 
by  juxta-position  do  not  set  off  but  kill  sweet  flowers.] 


THE  FALSE   ONE:    A  TRAGEDY.     BY   JOHN   FLETCHER. 

Ptolomy,  King  of  Egypt,  presents  to  Ccesar  the  head  of  Potnpey.     Caesar 
rebukes  the  Egyptians  for  their  treachery  and  ingratitude. 

Cesar,  Anthony,  Dollabela,  Sceva,  Romans;  Ptolomy, 
Photinus,  Achillas,  Egyptians. 

Pho.   Hail,  conqueror  and  head  of  all  the  world, 
Now  this  head's  oft*. 

Cces.  Ha! 

Pho.  Do  not  shun  nie,  Ceesar. 
From  kingly  Ptolomy  I  bring  this  present, 
The  crown  and  sweat  of  thy  Pharsalian  labor  ; 
The  goal  and  mark  of  high  ambitious  honor. 
Before,  thy  victory  had  no  name,  Csesar ; 
Thy  travail  and  thy  loss  of  blood  no  recompence  ; 
Thou  dream'dst  of  being  worthy  and  of  war  ; 
And  all  thy  furious  conflicts  were  but  slumbers ; 
Here  they  take  life,  here  they  inherit  honor, 
Grow  fix'd  and  shoot  up  everlasting  triumphs, 
Take  it  and  look  upon  thy  humble  servant, 
With  noble  eyes  look  on  the  princely  Ptolomy. 
That  offers  with  this  head,  most  mighty  Caesar, 
What  thou  would'st  once  have  given  for  't,  all  Egypt. 

Ach.   Nor  do  not  question  it,  most  royal  conqueror, 
Nor  disesteem  the  benefit  that  meets  thee, 
Because  'tis  easily  got,  it  comes  the  safer. 
Yet,  let  me  tell  thee,  most  imperious  Csesar, 
Though  he  oppos'd  no  strength  of  swords  to  win  this, 
Nor  labor'd  through  no  showers  of  darts  and  lances, 
Yet  here  he  found  a  fort  that  fae'd  him  strongly, 
An  inward  war :  He  was  his  grandsire's  guest, 


THE  FALSK  ONE.  139 


Friend  to  his  father,  and  when  he  was  i  xpell'd 
And  beaten  from  t his  kingdom  by  strong  hand, 
And  had  none  left  him  to  restore  his  honor, 
No  hope  to  find  a  friend  in  such  a  misery  ; 
Then  in  stept  Pompey,  took  his  feeble  fortune, 
Strengthen 'd  and  cherish'd  it,  and  set  it  right  again. 
This  was  a  love  to  Csesar  ! 

See.  Give  me  hate,  gods. 

Pho.  This  Csesar  may  account  a  little  wicked ; 
Rut  yet  remember,  if  thine  own  hands,  conqueror, 
Had  fall'n  upon  him,  what  it  had  been  then  ; 
If  thine  own  sword  had  touch'd  his  throat,  what  that  way 
He  was  thy  son-in-law,  there  to  be  tainted 
Had  been  most  terrible  :  let  the  worst  be  render'd, 
We  have  deserv'd  for  keeping  thy  hands  innocent. 

Cces.  O  Sceva,  Sceva,  see  that  head  ;  see,  captains, 
The  head  of  godlike  Pompey. 

See.  He  was  basely  ruin'd, 
But  let  the  gods  be  griev'd  that  suffer'd  it, 
And  be  you  Csesar. 

Cos.  Oh  thou  conqueror, 
Thou  glory  of  the  world  once,  now  the  pity, 
Thou  awe  of  nations,  wherefore  didst  thou  fall  thus  1 
What  poor  fate  follow'd  thee,  and  pluck'd  thee  on 
To  trust  thy  sacred  life  to  an  Egyptian  ; 
The  life  and  li^ht  of  Rome  to  a  blind  stranger, 
That  honorable  war  ne'er  taught  a  nobleness, 
Nor  worthy  circumstance  show'd  what  a  man  was ; 
That  never  heard  thy  name  sung  but  in  banquets 
And  loose  lascivious  pleasures  ;  to  a  boy, 
That  had  no  faith  to  comprehend  thy  greatness, 
No  study  of  thy  life  to  know  thy  goodness : 
And  leave  thy  nation,  nay,  thy  noble  friend, 
Leave  him  distrusted,  that  in  tears  falls  with  thee  : 
In  soft  relenting  tears  ?     Hear  me,  great  Pompey, 
If  thv  great  spirit  can  hear,  I  must  task  thee  : 
Thou  *st  most  unnobly  robb'd  me  of  my  victory, 
My  love  and  mercy. 


140  ENGLISH  DRAMATIC  POETS. 


Ant.  O  how  brave  these  tears  show  ! 
How  excellent  is  sorrow  in  an  enemy  ! 

Do/.  Glory  appears  not  greater  than  this  goodness. 

Cats.  Egyptians,  dare  you  think  your  high  pyramids, 
Built  to  outdure  the  sun  as  you  suppose, 
Where  your  unworthy  kings  lie  rak'd  in  ashes, 
Arc  monuments  fit  for  him  ?     No,  brood  of  Nilus, 
Nothing  can  cover  his  high  fame  but  heaven, 
No  pyramids  set  off  his  memories 
But  the  eternal  substance  of  his  greatness: 
To  which  1  leave  him.     Take  the  head  away, 
And  with  the  body  give  it  noble  burial. 
Your  earth  shall  now  be  bless'd  to  hold  a  Roman, 
Whose  braveries  all  the  world's  earth  cannot  balance — 
You  look  now,  king, 

And  you  that  have  been  agents  in  this  glory, 
For  our  especial  favor  ? 

Ptol.  We  desire  it. 

Cces.  And  doubtless  you  expect  rewards  ? — 
I  forgive  you  all  :  that's  recompence. 
You  are  young  and  ignorant :  that  pleads  your  pardon ; 
And  fear,  it  may  be,  more  than  hate  provok'd  ye. 
Your  ministers  I  must  think  wanted  judgment. 
And  so  they  err'd  ;  I  am  bountiful  to  think  this, 
Believe  me,  most  bountiful ;    be  you  most  thankful, 
That  bounty  share  amongst  ye  :  if  I  knew 
What  to  send  you  for  a  present,  king  of  Egypt, 
I  mean,  a  head  of  equal  reputation, 

And  that  you  lov'd,  though  it  were  your  brightest  sister's,* 
(But  her  you  hate)  I  would  not  be  behind  ye. 

Ptol.  Hear  me,  great  Csesar. 

Cess.  I  have  heard  too  much  : 
And  study  not  with  smooth  shows  to  invade 
My  noble  mind  as  you  have  done  my  conquest. 
Ye  are  poor  and  open :  I  must  tell  ye  roundly, 
That  man  that  could  not  recompence  the  benefits, 

*  Cleopatra 


THE  FALSE  ONE.  141 


The  great  and  bounteous  services  of  Pompey, 
Can  never  doat  upon  the  name  of  Caesar. 
Though  I 

Had  hated  Pompey,  and  allovv'd  his  ruin, 
Hasty  to  please  in  blood  are  seldom  trusty : 
And  but  I  stand  environ 'd  with  my  victories, 
My  fortune  never  failing  to  befriend  me, 
My  noble  strengths  and  friends  about  my  person, 
I  durst  not  try  ye,  nor  expect  a  courtesy 
Above  the  pious  love  you  show'd  to  Pompey. 
You  've  found  me  merciful  in  arguing  with  you  ; 
Swords,  hangmen,  fires,  destructions  of  all  natures, 
Demolishments  of  kingdoms,  and  whole  ruins, 
Are  wont  to  be  my  orators.     Turn  to  tears, 
You  wretched  and  poor  seeds  of  sun-burnt  Egypt : 
And  now  you  've  found  the  nature  of  a  conqueror. 
That  you  cannot  decline  with  all  your  flatteries, 
That  where  the  day  gives  light  will  be  himself  still, 
Know  how  to  meet  his  worth  with  human  courtesi 
Go,  and  embalm  the  bones  of  that  great  soldier  ; 
Howl  round  about  his  pile,  fling  on  your  spices, 
Make  a  Sabsean  bed,  and  place  this  Phoenix 
Where  the  hot  sun  may  emulate  his  virtues, 
And  draw  another  Pompey  from  his  ashes 
Divinely  great,  and  fix  him  'mongst  the  worthies. 

Ptol.  We  will  do  all. 

Cos.  You  've  robb'd  him  of  those  tears 
His  kindred  and  his  friends  kept  sacred  for  him, 
The  virgins  of  their  funeral  lamentations  ; 
And  that  kind  earth  that  thought  to  cover  him, 
His  country's  earth,  will  cry  out  'gainst  your  cruelty. 
And  weep  unto  the  ocean  for  revenge, 
Till  Nilus  raise  his  seven  heads  and  devour  ye, 
My  grief  has  stopt  the  rest:  when  Pompey  lived, 
He  used  you  nobly  ;  now  he  is  dead,  use  him  so. 


112  ENGLISH  DRAMATIC  POETS. 


LOVE'S   PILGRIMAGE:    A    COMEDY.     BY   JOHN   FLETCHER. 

Leocadia  leaves  her  Father's  house,  disguised  in  man's  apparel,  to  travel 
in  search  of  Mark-antonio,  to  whom  she  is  contracted,  but  has  been 
deserted  by  him.  When  at  length  she  meets  with  him,  she  finds,  that  by 
a  precontract  he  is  the  Husband  of  Theodosia.  In  this  extremity, 
Philippo,  Brother  to  Theodosia,  offers  Leocadia  marriage. 

Philippo.     Leocadia. 

Phi.  Will  you  not  hear  me  ? 

Leo.  I  have  heard  so  much, 
Will  keep  me  deaf  for  ever.     No,  Mark-antonio, 
After  thy  sentence  I  may  hear  no  more, 
Thou  hast  pronounc'd  me  dead. 

Phi.  Appeal  to  reason  : 
She  will  reprieve  you  from  the  power  of  grief, 
Which  rules  but  in  her  absence ;  hear  me  say 
A  sovereign  message  from  her,  which  in  duty, 
And  love  to  your  own  safety,  you  ought  hear. 
Why  do  you  strive  so  ?  whither  would  you  fly  ? 
You  cannot  wrest  yourself  away  from  care, 
You  may  from  counsel ;  you  may  shift  your  place, 
But  not  your  person ;  and  another  clime 
Makes  you  no  other. 

Leo.  Oh! 

Phi.  For  passion's  sake 
(Which  I  do  serve,  honor,  and  love  in  you), 
If  you  will  sigh,  sigh  here ;  if  you  would  vary 
A  sigh  to  tears,  or  out-cry,  do  it  here. 
No  shade,  no  desart,  darkness,  nor  the  grave, 
Shall  be  more  equal  to  your  thoughts  than  I. 
Only  but  hear  me  speak. 

Leo.  What  would  you  say  ? 

Phi.   That  which  shall  raise  your  heart,  or  pull  down  mine, 
Quiet  your  passion,  or  provoke  mine  own  : 
We  must  have  both  one  balsam,  or  one  wound. 
For  know,  lov'd  fair, 
I  have  read  you  through, 
And  with  a  wond'ring  pity  look'd  on  you. 


LOVE'S  PILGRIMAGE.  143 

I  have  observ'd  the  method  of  your  blood, 

And  waited  on  it  even  with  sympathy 

Of  a  like  red  and  paleness  in  mine  own. 

I  knew  which  blush  was  anger's,   which  was  love's, 

Which  was  the  eye  of  sorrow,  which  of  truth, 

And  could  distinguish  honor  from  disdain 

In  every  change  :  and  you  are  worth  my  study. 

I  saw  your  voluntary  misery 

Sustain'd  in  travel  ;   a  disguised  maid, 

Wearied  with  seeking,  and  with  finding  lost, 

Neglected  where  you  hoped  most,  or  put  by  , 

1  saw  it,  and  have  laid  it  to  my  heart, 

And  though  it  were  my  sister  which  was  righted, 

Yet  being  by  your  wrong,  I  put  off  nature, 

Could  not  be  glad,  where  I  most  bound  to  triumph  : 

My  care  for  you  so  drown'd  respect  of  her. 

Nor  did  I  only  apprehend  your  bonds, 

But  studied  your  release  :  and  for  that  day 

Have  I  made  up  a  ransom,  brought  you  a  health, 

Preservative  'gainst  chance  or  injury, 

Please  you  apply  it  to  the  grief;  myself. 

Leo.  Ah ! 

Phi.  Nay,  do  not  think  me  less  than  such  a  cure  ; 
Antonio  was  not,  and  'tis  possible 
Philippo  may  succeed.     My  blood  and  house 
Are  as  deep  rooted,  and  as  fairly  spread, 
As  Mark-antonio's ;  and  in  that,  all  seek, 
Fortune  hath  giv'n  him  no  precedency  ; 
As  for  our  thanks  to  Nature,  I  may  burn 
Incense  as  much  as  he  ;  I  ever  durst 
Walk  with  Antonio  by  the  self-same  light 
At  any  feast,  or  triumph,  and  ne'er  cared 
Which  side  my  lady  or  her  woman  took 
In  their  survey  ;  I  durst  have  told  my  tale  too, 
Though  his  discourse  new  ended. 

Leo.   My  repulse 

Phi.  Let  not  that  torture  you  which  makes  me  happy, 
Nor  think  that  conscience,  fair,  which  is  no  shame  ; 


M4  ENGLISH  DRAMATIC  POETS. 


'Twas  no  repulse,  it  was  your  dowry  rather  : 
For  then  inethought  a  thousand  graces  met 
To  make  you  lovely,  and  ten  thousand  stories 
Of  constant  virtue,  which  you  then  out-reach'd, 
In  one  example  did  proclaim  you  rich: 
Nor  do  I  think  you  wretched  or  disgraced 
After  this  suffering,  and  do  therefore  take 
Advantage  of  your  need  ;   hut  rather  know, 
You  are  the  charge  and  business  of  those  powers, 
Who,  like  best  tutors,  do  inflict  hard  tasks 
Upon  great  natures,  and  of  noblest  hopes ; 
Read  trivial  lessons  and  half-lines  to  slugs: 
They  that  live  long,  and  never  feel  mischance, 
Spend  more  than  half  their  age  in  ignorance. 

Leo.  'Tis  well  you  think  so. 

Phi.  You  shall  think  so  too, 
You  shall,  sweet  Leocadia,  and  do  so. 

Leo.  Good  sir,  no  more ;  you  have  too  fair  a  shape 
To  play  so  foul  a  part  in,  as  the  Tempter. 
Say  that  I  could  make  peace  with  fortune  ;  who, 
Who  should  absolve  me  of  my  vow  yet :  ha  ? 
My  contract  made  ? 

Phi.  Your  contract  ? 

Leo.  Yes,  my  contract. 
Am  I  not  his  ?  his  wife  ? 

Phi.  Sweet,  nothing  less. 

Leo.  I  have  no  name  then. 

Phi.  Truly  then  you  have  not. 
How  can  you  be  his  wife,  who  was  before 
Another's  husband  ? 

Leo.  Oh !  though  he  dispense 
With  his  faith  given,  I  cannot  with  mine. 

Phi.  You  do  mistake,  clear  soul  ;  his  precontract 
Doth  annul  yours,  and  you  have  giv'n  no  faith 
That  ties  you,  in  religion,  or  humanity  : 
You  rather  sin  against  that  greater  precept, 
To  covet  what's  another's ;  sweet,  you  do, 
Believe  me.  who  dare  not  urge  dishonest  things. 


LOVE'S  SACRIFICE,  145 


Remove  that  scruple,  therefore,  and  but:  take 
Your  dangers  now  into  your  judgment's  scale, 
And  weigh  them  with  your  safeties.     Think  but  whither 
Now  you  can  go ;  what  you  can  do  to  live  : 
How  near  you  have  barr'd  all  ports  to  your  own  succor, 
Except  this  one  that  I  here  open,  love, 
"Should  you  be  left  alone,  you  were  a  prey 
To  the  wild  lust  of  any,  who  would  look 
Upon  this  shape  like  a  temptation, 
And  think  you  want  the  man  you  personate  ; 
Would  not  regard  this  shift,  which  love  put  on, 
As  virtue  forc'd,  but  covet  it  like  vice : 
~ScT  should  you  live  the  slander  of  each  sex, 
And  be  the  child  of  error  and  of  shame ; 
And  which  is  worse,  even  Mark-antonio 
Would  be  call'd  just,  to  turn  a  wanderer  off, 
And  fame  report  you  worthy  his  contempt : 
Where,  if  you  make  new  choice,  and  settle  here, 
There  is  no  further  tumult  in  this  flood, 
Each  current  keeps  his  course,  and  all  suspicions 
Shall  return  honors.     Came  ye  forth  a  maid  ? 
Go  home  a  wife.     Alone,  and  in  disguise  1 
Go  home  a  waited  Leocadia. 
Go  home,  and  by  the  virtue  of  that  charm, 
Transform  all  mischiefs  as  you  are  transform'd, 
Turn  your  offended  father's  wrath  to  wonder, 
And  all  his  loud  grief  to  a  silent  welcome  ; 
Unfold  the  riddles  you  have  made. — What  say  you  ? 
Now  is  the  time  ;  delay  is  but  despair ; 
If  you  be  chang'd,  let  a  kiss  tell  me  so. 

Leo.  I  am ;  but  how,  I  rather  feel  than  know. 

[This  is  one  of  the  most  pleasing  if  not  the  most  shining  scenes  in 
Fletcher.  All  is  sweet,  natural,  and  unforced.  It  is  a  copy  in  which  we 
may  suppose  Massinger  to  have  profited  by  the  studying.] 


PART  II.  11 


116  ENGLISH  DRAMATIC  POETS. 


BONDUCA  :  A  TRAGEDY.     BY  JOHN  FLETCHER. 

Bonduca,  the  British  Quern,  taking  occasion  from  a  Defeat  of  the  Ro- 
mans to  impeach   their  Valor,  is  rebuked  by   Cdratach. 

Bonduca,  Caratach,  Hengo,  Nennius,  Soldiers. 

Bon.  The  hardy  Romans  !  O  ye  gods  of  Britain, 
The  rust  of  arms,  the  blushing  shame  of  soldiers! 
Are  these  the  men  that  conquer  by  inheritance  ? 
The  fortune-makers  ?  these  the  Julians, 
That  with  the  sun  measure  the  end  of  Nature, 
Making  the  world  but  one  Rome  and  one  Caesar  ? 
Shame,  how  they  flee  !  Caesar's  soft  soul  dwells  in  them  ; 
Their  mothers  got  them  sleeping,  pleasure  nurst  them, 
Their  bodies  sweat  with  sweet  oils,  love's  allurements, 
Not  lusty  arms.     Dare  they  send  these  to  seek  us, 
These  Roman  girls  ?     Is  Britain  grown  so  wanton  ? 
Twice  we  have  beat  them,  Nennius,  scattered  them, 
And  though  their  big-boned  Germans,  on  whose  pikes 
The  honors  of  their  actions  sit  in  triumph, 
Made  themes  for  songs  to  shame  them :  and  a  woman, 
A  woman  beat  them,  Nennius ;  a  weak  woman, 
A  woman  beat  these  Romans. 

Car.  So  it  seems.     A  man  would  shame  to  talk  so. 

Bon.  Who  's  that  ? 

Car.  I. 

Bon.  Cousin,  do  you  grieve  at  my  fortunes  ? 

Car.  No,  Bonduca, 
If  I  grieve,  'tis  at  the  bearing  of  your  fortunes ; 
You  put  too  much  wind  to  your  sail  :  discretion 
And  hardy  valor  are  the  twins  of  honor, 
And  nurs'd  together,  make  a  conqueror ; 
Divided,  but  a  talker.     'Tis  a  truth, 
That  Rome  has  fled  before  us  twice,  and  routed. 
A  truth  we  ought  to  crown  the  gods  for,  lady, 
And  not  our  tongues.     A  truth,  is  none  of  ours, 
Nor  in  our  ends,  more  than  the  noble  bearing  : 
For  then  it  leaves  to  be  a  virtue,  lady, 


BONDUCA.  147 


And  we  that  have  been  victors,  beat  ourselves, 
When  we  insult  upon  our  honor's  subject. 
Bon.  My  valiant  cousin,  is  it  foul  to  say 
What  liberty  and  honor  bid  us  do, 
And  what  the  gods  allow  us  ? 

Car.  No,  Bonduca, 
So  what  we  say  exceed  not  what  we  do. 
Ye  call  the  Romans  fearful,  fleeing  Romans, 
And  Roman  girls,  the  lees  of  tainted  pleasures  : 
Does  this  become  a  doer  1  are  they  such  ? 
Bon.  They  are  no  more. 
Car.  Where  is  your  conquest  then  ? 
Why  are  your  altars  crown'd  with  wreaths  of  flowers, 
The  beast  with  gilt  horns  waiting  for  the  fire  1 
The  holy  Druids  composing  songs 
Of  everlasting  life  to  Victory  ? 
Why  are  these  triumphs,  lady  ?  for  a  may-game  ? 
For  hunting  a  poor  herd  of  wretched  Romans  ? 
Is  it  no  more  ?  shut  up  your  temples,  Britons, 
And  let  the  husbandman  redeem  his  heifers  ; 
Put  out  our  holy  fires  ;  no  timbrel  ring  ; 
Let 's  home  and  sleep  ;   for  such  great  overthrows 
A  candle  burns  too  bright  a  sacrifice ; 
A  glow-worm's  tail  too  full  of  flame.     O  Nennius, 
Thou  hast  a  noble  uncle  knew  a  Roman, 
And  how  to  speak  to  him,  how  to  give  him  weight 
In  both  his  fortunes. 

Bon.  By  the  gods,  I  think 
Ye  doat  upon  these  Romans,  Caratach. 

Car.   Witness  these  wounds,  I  do  ;  they  were  fairly  given, 
I  love  an  enemy,  I  was  born  a  soldier ; 
And  he  that  in  the  head  of  's  troop  defies  me, 
Bending  my  manly  body  with  his  sword, 
I  make  a  mistress.     Yellow- tressed  Hymen 
\   'er  tied  a  longing  virgin  with  more  joy, 
Than  I  am  married  to  that  man  that  wounds  me  : 
And  are  not  all  these  Romans.     Ten  struck  battles 
I  snek'd  these  honor'd  scars  from,  and  all  Roman, 


'•18  ENGLfSH  DRAMATIC  POETS. 


Ten  years  of  bitter  nights  and  heavy  marches, 
When  many  a  frozen  storm  sung  through  my  cuirass, 
And  made  it  doubtful  whether  that  or  I 
Were  the  more  stubborn  metal,  have  I  wrought  through, 
And  all  to  try  these  Romans.     Ten  times  a  night 
1  have  swum  the  rivers,  when  the  stars  of  Rome 
Shot  at  me  as  I  floated,  and  the  billows 
Tumbled  their  watry  ruins  on  my  shoulders, 
Charging  my  batter'd  sides  with  troops  of  agues, 
And  still  to  try  these  Romans ;  whom  I  found 
(And  if  I  lie,  my  wounds  be  henceforth  backward, 
And  be  you  witness,  gods,  and  all  my  dangers) 
As  ready,  and  as  full  of  that  I  brought 
(Which  was  not  fear  nor  flight)  as  valiant, 
As  vigilant,  as  wise,  to  do  and  suffer, 
Ever  advanc'd  as  forward  as  the  Britons ; 
Their  sleeps  as  short,  their  hopes  as  high  as  ours. 
Aye,  and  as  subtle,  Lady.      'Tis  dishonor, 
And  follow 'd  will  be  impudence,  Bonduca, 
And  grow  to  no  belief,  to  taint  these  Romans. 
Have  I  not  seen  the  Britons — 
Bon.  What? 
Car.  Disheart'ned, 
Run,  run,  Bonduca,  not  the  quick  rack  swifter; 
The  virgin  from  the  hated  ravisher 
Not  half  so  fearful  ; — not  a  flight  drawn  home, 
A  round  stone  from  a  sling,  a  lover's  wish, 
E'er  made  that  haste  that  they  have.     By  heavens, 
I  have  seen  these  Britons  that  you  magnify, 
Run  as  they  would  have  out-run  time,  and  roaring, 
Basely  for  mercy,  roaring  ;  the  light  shadows, 
That  in  a  thought  scur  o'er  the  fields  of  corn, 
Halted  on  crutches  to  them. 

Bon.  O  ye  powers, 
What  scandals  do  I  suffer  ! 

Car.  Yes,  Bonduca, 
I  have  seen  thee  run  too,  and  thee,  Nennius ; 
Yea  run  apace,  both  :  then  when  Penvus, 


Till-:  BLOODY  BROTHER.  149 


The  Roman  girl,  cut  through  your  armed  carts, 
And  drove  them  headlong  on  ye  down  the  hill  : 
Then  when  he  hunted  ye  like  Britain-foxes, 
.More  by  the  scent  than  sight :  then  did  I  see 
These  valiant  and  approved  men  of  Britain, 
Like  boding  owls,  creep  into  tods  of  ivy, 
And  hoot  their  fears  to  one  another  nightly. 
t.  And  what  did  you  then,  Caratach  ? 
Car.  I  fled  too, 
But  not  so  fast :  your  jewel  had  been  lost  then, 
Young  Hengo  there  ;   he  trasht  me,  Nennius  : 
For  when  your  fears  out-run  him,  then  stept  I, 
And  in  the  head  of  all  the  Roman's  fury 
Took  him,  and,  with  my  tough  belt  to  my  back, 
1  buckled  him  ;   behind  him,  my  sure  shield  ; 
And  then  I  follow  \1.     If  I  say  I  fought 
Five  times  in  bringing  off  this  bud  of  Britain, 
I  lie  not,  Nennius.     Neither  had  ye  heard 
Me  speak  this,  or  ever  seen  the  child  more, 
But  that  the  son  of  Virtue,  Penyus, 
Seeing  me  steer  through  all  these  storms  of  danger, 
My  helm  still  in  my  hand  (my  sword),  my  prow 
Turn'd  to  my  foe  (my  face),  he  cried  out  nobly, 
::  Go,  Briton,  bear  thy  lion's  whelp  off  safely ; 
"  Thy  manly  sword  has  ransom'd  thee  :  grow  strong, 
"  And  let  me  meet  thee  once  again  in  arms : 
"  Then  if  thou  stand'st,  thou  art  mine."     I  took  his  offer, 
And  here  I  am  to  honor  him. 


THE  BLOODY  BROTHER ;  OR,  ROLLO  :  A  TRAGEDY.  BY  JOHN 

FLETCHER. 

Rullo,  Duke  of  J\rormandy,  a  bloody  tyrant,  puts  to  death  his  tutor  Bald- 
win, for  too  freely  reproving  him  for  his  crimes  ;  but  afterwards  falls 
in  love  with  Edith,  daughter  to  the  man  he  has  slain.  She  makes  a 
shoip  of  returning  his  love,  and  invites  him  to  a  banquet ;  her  design 


150  ENGLISH  DRAMATIC  POETS. 


biingto  train  him  there,  that  she  may  kill  him:   but  overcome  by  his 
flatteries  and  real  or  dissembled  remorse,  she  faints  in  her  resolution. 

Rollo.     Edith. 

Rol.  What  bright  star,  taking  beauty's  form  upon  her, 
In  all  the  happy  lustre  of  heaven's  glory, 
Has  dropt  down  from  the  sky  to  comfort  me  ? 
Wonder  of  Nature,  let  it  not  profane  thee 
My  rude  hand  touch  thy  beauty,  nor  this  kiss, 
The  gentle  sacrifice  of  love  and  service, 
Be  offer'd  to  the  honor  of  thy  sweetness. 

Edi.  My  gracious  lord,  no  deity  dwells  here, 
Nor  nothing  of  that  virtue  but  obedience ; 
The  servant  to  your  will  affects  no  flattery. 

Rol.  Can  it  be  flattery  to  swear  those  eyes 
Are  Love's  eternal  lamps  he  fires  all  hearts  with  : 
That  tongue  the  smart  string  to  his  bow  ?  those  sighs 
The  deadly  shafts  he  sends  into  our  souls  ? 
Oh,  look  upon  me  with  thy  spring  of  beauty. 

Edi.  Your  grace  is  full  of  game. 

Rol.  By  heaven,  my  Edith, 
Thy  mother  fed  on  roses  when  she  bred  thee. 
The  sweetness  of  the  Arabian  wind  still  blowing 
Upon  the  treasures  of  perfumes  and  spices, 
In  all  their  pride  and  pleasures,  call  thee  mistress. 

Edi.  Wil  't  please  you  sit,  sir  ? 

Rol.  So  you  please  sit  by  me. 
Fair  gentle  maid,  there  is  no  speaking  to  thee, 
The  excellency  that  appears  upon  thee 
Ties  up  my  tongue  :  pray  speak  to  me. 

Edi.  Of  what,  sir  ? 

Rol.  Of  anything,  anything  is  excellent. 
Will  you  take  my  directions  ?  speak  of  love  then  ; 
Speak  of  thy  fair  self,  Edith :  and  while  thou  speak'st, 
Let  me  thus  languishing  give  up  myself,  wench. 

Edi.  H'as  a  strange  cunning  tongue.     Why  do  you  sigh,  sir  \ 
How  masterly  he  turns  himself  to  catch  me  ! 

Rol.  The  way  to  paradise,  my  gentle  maid. 


Till:   BLOODY    BROTH!  151 


Is  hard  and  crooked :  scarce  repentance  rinding, 
With  all  her  holy  helps,  the  door  to  enter. 
Give  me  thy  hand,  what  dost  thou  feel  ? 

Edi.  Your  tears,  sir  ; 
You  weep  extremely  ;  strengthen  me  now,  justice. 
Why  are  these  sorrows,  sir  ? 

Rol.  Thou'lt  never  love  me, 
If  I  should  tell  thee  ;  yet  there's  no  way  left 
Ever  to  purchase  this  blest  paradise, 
But  swimming  thither  in  these  tears. 

Edi.  I  stasrser. 

Rol.  Are  they  not  drops  of  blood  ? 

Edi.  No. 

Rol.  They're  for  blood  then, 
For  guiltless  blood ;  and  they  must  drop,  my  Edith, 
They  must  thus  drop,  till  I  have  drown'd  my  mischiefs. 

Edi.  If  this  be  true,  I  have  no  strength  to  touch  him. 

Rol.  I  prithee  look  upon  me,  turn  not  from  me  ; 
Alas  I  do  confess  I'm  made  of  mischiefs, 
Begot  with  all  man's  miseries  upon  me  : 
But  see  my  sorrows,  maid,  and  do  not  thou, 
Whose  only  sweetest  sacrifice  is  softness, 
Whose  true  condition,  tenderness  of  nature 

Edi.  My  anger  melts,  oh,  I  shall  lose  my  justice. 

Rol.  Do  not  thou  learn  to  kill  with  cruelty, 
As  I  have  done,  to  murder  with  thine  eyes, 
(Those  blessed  eyes)  as  I  have  done  with  malice. 
When  thou  hast  wounded  me  to  death  with  scorn, 
(As  I  deserve  it,  lady)  for  my  true  love, 
When  thou  hast  loaden  me  with  earth  for  ever, 
Take  heed  my  sorrows,  and  the  stings  I  surfer, 
Take  heed  my  nightly  dreams  of  death  and  horror 
Pursue  thee  not  :  no  time  shall  tell  thy  griefs  then, 
Nor  shall  an  hour  of  joy  add  to  thy  beauties, 
Look  not  upon  me  as  I  kill'd  thy  father, 
As  I  was  smear'd  in  blood,  do  not  thou  hate  me  ; 
But  thus  in  whiteness  of  my  wash'd  repentance, 


ENGLISH  i)K\.M  ATIC  POETS. 


In  my  heart's  tears  ami  truth  of  love  to  Edith, 
Jo  )n_\  fair  life  hereafter. 

Edi.   Hi-  will  fool  me. 

liol.   Oh,  with  thine  angel  eyes  behold  and  bless  me  ' 
On  heaven  we  call  for  mercy  and  obtain  it, 
To  justice  for  our  right  on  earth  and  have  it, 
Of  thee  I  beg  for  love,  save  me,  and  give  it. 

Edi.  Now,  heaven,  thy  help,  or  I  am  gone  for  ever ! 
His  tongue  has  turn'd  me  into  melting  pity. 


THIERRY  AND   THEODORET  :  A  TRAGEDY.     BY  JOHN 

FLETCHER. 

Thierry,  King  of  Prance,  being  childless,  is  foretold  by  an  Astrologer, 

that  he  shall  have  children  if  he  sacrifice  the  first  Woman   that  he 

shall  meet  at  sun-rise  coming  out  of  the  Temple  of  Diana.     He  waits 

before  the  Temple,  and  the  first  Woman  he  sees  proves  to  be  his  own 

Wife  Ordella. 

Thierry.     Martel,  a  Nobleman. 

Mart.  Your  grace  is  early  stirring. 

Thicr.  How  can  he  sleep 
Whose  happiness  is  laid  up  in  an  hour 
He  knows  comes  stealing  towards  him  ?     Oh  Martel ! 
ls't  possible  the  longing  bride,  whose  wishes 
Out-run  her  fears,  can  on  that  day  she  is  married 
Consume  in  slumbers ;  or  his  arms  rust  in  ease 
That  hears  the  charge,  and  sees  the  honor'd  purchase 
Ready  to  guild  his  valor  ?     Mine  is  more, 
A  power  above  these  passions :  this  day  France, 
France,  that  in  want  of  issue  withers  with  us, 
And  like  an  aged  river,  runs  his  head 
Into  forgotten  ways,  again  I  ransom, 
And  his  fair  course  turn  right. 

Marl,    flappy  woman,  that  dies  to  do  these  things. 


THIERRY     !  x  D  THEODORET.  153 

Thier.   The  Gods  have  heard  me  now  .  and  those  that  scorn'd  me, 
.Mothers  of  many  children  and  blest  fathers 
That  see  their  issue  like  the  stars  unnumber'd, 
Their  comfort  more  than  them,  shall  in  my  praise; 
Now  teach  their  infants  songs;  and  tell  their  ages 
From  such  a  son  of  mine,  or  such  a  queen, 
That  chaste  Ordella  brings  me. 

Mart.   The  day  wears, 
And  those  that  have  been  offering  early  prayers, 
A  iv  now  retiring  homeward. 

Thicr.   Stand  and  mark  then. 

Mart.  Is  it  the  first  must  suffer  ? 

Thier.  The  first  woman. 

Mart.   What  hand  shall  do  it,  sir  ? 

Thier.  This  hand.  Martel : 
For  who  less  dare  presume  to  give  the  gods 
An  incense  of  this  offering  I 

Mart.    Would  I  were  she, 
such  a  way  to  die,  and  such  a  blessing, 
Can  never  crown  my  parting. 
Here  conies  a  woman. 

Ordella  comes-  out  of  the  Temple  veiled. 

Thier.  Stand  and  behold  her  then. 

Mart.   I  think  a  fair  one. 

Thier.  Move  not  whilst  I  prepare  her  :  may  her  peace, 
Like  his  whose  innocence  the  gods  are  pleas'd  with, 
And  offering  at  their  altars,  gives  his  soul 
Far  purer  than  those  fires,  pull  heaven  upon  her ; 
You  holy  powers,  no  human  spot  dwell  in  her  ; 
No  love  of  anything,  but  you  and  goodness, 
Tie  her  to  earth  ;   fear  be  a  stranger  to  her, 
And  all  weak  blood's  affections,  but  thy  hope, 
Let  her  bequeath  to  women  :  hear  me,  heaven, 
( rive  her  a  spirit  masculine  and  noble, 
Fit  for  yourseh  sk,  and  me  to  offer. 

O  let  her  in  «  I  my  blow,  doat  on  her  death  ; 
\mi  as  a  wanton  vine  bows  to  the  primer. 


154  ENGLISH   DRAMATIC  POETS. 

That  by  his  cutting  off  more  may  increase, 
So  li  i  her  fall  to  raise  me  fruit.     Hail  woman! 
The  happiest  and  the  besl  (if  the  dull  will 
Do  not  abuse  thy  fortune)  France  e'er  found  yet. 

Ordel.  She's  more  than  dull,  sir,  less  and  worse  than  woman, 
That  may  inherit  such  an  infinite 
As  you  propound,  a  greatness  so  near  goodness, 
And  brings  a  will  to  rob  her. 

Thier.  Tell  me  this  then, 
Was  there  e'er  woman  yet,  or  may  be  found, 
That  for  fair  fame,  unspotted  memory, 
For  virtue's  sake,  and  only  for  its  self  sake, 
Has,  or  dare  make  a  story  ? 

Ordel.  Many  dead,  sir,  living  I  think  as  many. 

Thier.  Say  the  kingdom 
May  from  a  woman's  will  receive  a  blessing, 
The  king  and  kingdom,  not  a  private  safety  ; 
A  general  blessing,  lady. 

Ordel.  A  general  curse  light  on  her  heart  denies  it. 

Thier.   Full  of  honor  ; 
And  such  examples  as  the  former  ages 
Were  but  dim  shadows  of  and  empty  figures, 

Ordel.  You  strangely  stir  me,  sir,  and  were  my  weakness 
In  any  other  flesh  but  modest  woman's, 
\ou  should  not  ask  more  questions  ;  may  I  do  it  ? 

Thier.  You  may,  and  which  is  more,  you  must. 

Ordel.  I  joy  in't, 
Above  a  moderate  gladness  ;  sir,  you  promise 
It  shall  be  honest. 

Thier.  As  ever  time  discover'd. 

Ordel.  Let  it  be  what  it  may  then,  what  it  dare, 
I  have  a  mind  will  hazard  it. 

TJiier.  But  hark  ye, 
What  may  that  woman  merit,  makes  this  blessing? 

Ordel.  Only  her  duty,  sir. 

Thier.  'Tis  terrible. 

Ordel.   'Tis  so  much  the  more  noble. 

Thier.   'Tis  full  of  fearful  shadows. 


THIERRY  AND  THEODORET.  155 


Ordel.  So  is  sleep,  sir, 
Or  anything  that's  merely  ours  and  mortal ; 
We  were  begotten  gods  else  :  but  those  fears, 
Feeling  but  once  the  fires  of  nobler  thoughts, 
Fly,  like  the  shapes  of  clouds  we  form,  to  nothing. 

Thicr.  Suppose  it  death. 

Ordel.  I  do. 

Thier.   And  endless  parting 
With  all  we  can  call  ours,  with  all  our  sweetness, 
With  youth,  strength,  pleasure,  people,  time,  nay  reason  : 
For  in  the  silent  grave,  no  conversation,* 
No  joyful  tread  of  friends,  no  voice  of  lovers, 
No  careful  father's  counsel,  nothing's  heard, 
Nor  nothing  is,  but  all  oblivion, 

Dust  and  an  endless  darkness :  and  dare  you,  woman. 
Desire  this  place  ? 

Ordel.  'Tis  of  all  sleeps  the  sweetest ; 
Children  begin  it  to  us,  strong  men  seek  it, 
And  kings  from  height  of  all  their  painted  glories 
Fall  like  spent  exhalations  to  this  centre  : 
And  those  are  fools  that  fear  it,  or  imagine, 
A  few  unhandsome  pleasures,  or  life's  profits, 
Can  recompense  this  place  ;  and  mad  that  stay  it, 
Till  age  blow  out  their  lights,  or  rotten  humors 
Bring  them  dispersed  to  the  earth. 

Thier.  Then  you  can  suffer  ? 

Ordel.  As  willingly  as  say  it. 

Thier.  Mattel,  a  wonder  ! 
Here  is  a  woman  that  dares  die.     Yet  tell  me, 
Are  you  a  wife  ? 

Ordel.  I  am,  sir  ? 

Thier.   And  have  children  1     She  sighs  and  weeps. 

Ordel.   O  none,  sir. 

Thicr.  Dare  you  venture, 
For  a  poor  barren  praise  you  ne'er  shall  hear, 

*  There  is  no  work,  no  device,  nor  knowledge,  nor  wisdom,  in  the  grave, 
whither  thou  goest.     Ecclesiastes. 


156  ENGLISH   DRAMATIC  POETS. 


To  part  with  these  sweet  hopes? 

Ordel.  With  all  but  heaven, 
And  yet  die  full  of  children  ;  he  that  reads  me 
When  I  am  ashes,  is  my  son  in  wishes: 
And  those  chaste  dames  that  keep  my  memory, 
ging  my  yearly  requiems,  are  my  daughters. 

Thier.   Then  there  is  nothing  wanting  but  my  knowledge, 
And  what  I  must  do,  lady. 

Ordcl.   You  arc  the  king,  sir, 
And  what  you  do  I'll  suffer,  and  that  blessing 
That  you  desire,  the  gods  shower  on  the  kingdom. 

Thier.  Thus  much  before  I  strike  then,  for  I  must  kill  you, 
The  gods  have  will'd  it  so,  they've  made  the  blessing 
.Must  make  France  young  again,  and  me  a  man. 
Keep  up  your  strength  still  nobly. 

Ordel.  Fear  me  not. 

Thier.  And  meet  death  like  a  measure. 

Ordel.  I  am  stedfast. 

Thier.  Thou  shalt  be  sainted,  woman,  and  thy  tomb 
Cut  out  in  crystal  pure  and  good  as  thou  art ; 
And  on  it  shall  be  graven  every  age 
Succeeding  peers  of  France  that  rise  by  thy  fall, 
Till  thou  liest  there  like  old  and  fruitful  Nature. 
Barest  thou  behold  thy  happiness  ? 

Ordel.  I  dare,  sir. 

[Pulls  off  her  veil;  he  lets  fall  his  sword. 

Thier.  Ha ! 

Mar.  O,  sir,  you  must  not  do  it. 

Thier.  No,  I  dare  not. 
There  is  an  angel  keeps  that  paradise, 
A  fiery  angel  friend  :  O  virtue,  virtue, 
Ever  and  endless  virtue. 

Ordel.  Strike,  sir,  strike. 
And  if  in  my  poor  death  fair  France  may  merit, 
Give  me  a  thousand  blows,  be  killing  me 
A  thousand  days. 

Thier.   First  let  the  earth  be  barren, 
And  man  no  more  remember'd,      Rise.  Ordella, 


THIERRY  AND  THEODORET.  157 


The  nearest  to  thy  Maker,  and  the  pun ^t 

That  ever  dull  flesh  show'd  us, — Oh  my  heart-strings.* 

Mattel  relates  to  Thierry  the  manner  of  Or  delta's  death. 

Mar.  The  griev'd  Ordclla  (for  all  other  titles 
But  take  away  from  that)  having  from  me, 
Prompted  by  your  last  parting  groan,  enquir'd 
What  drew  it  from  you,  and  the  cause  soon  learn'd  : 
For  she  whom  barbarism  could  deny  nothing, 
With  such  prevailing  earnestness  desir'd  it, 
;T\vas  not  in  me,  though  it  had  been  my  death, 
To  hide  it  from  her  ;  she,  I  say,  in  whom, 
All  was,  that  Athens.  Rome,  or  warlike  Sparta, 
Have  register'd  for  good  in  their  best  women, 
But  nothing  of  their  ill  ;   knowing  herself 
Mark'd  out  (I  know  not  by  what  power,  but  sure 
A  cruel  one),  to  die,  to  give  you  children  ; 
[laving  first  with  a  settled  countenance 
Look'd  up  to  heaven,  and  then  upon  herself 
(It  being  the  next  best  object),  and  then  smil'd, 
\>  if  her  joy  in  death  to  do  you  service, 
Would  break  forth,  in  despite  of  the  much  sorrow 

*  I  have  always  considered  this  to  be  the  finest  scene  in  Fletcher,  and 
Ordella  the  most  perfect  idea  of  the  female  heroic  character,  next  to  Ca- 
lantha  in  the  Broken  Heart  of  Ford,  that  has  been  embodied  in  fiction.  She 
is  a  piece  of  sainted  nature.  Yet  noble  as  the  whole  scene  is,  it  must  be 
confessed  that  the  manner  of  it,  compared  with  Shakspeare's  finest  scenes, 
is  slow  and  languid.  Its  motion  is  circular,  not  progressive.  Each  line 
Ives  on  itself  in  a  sort  of  separate  orbit.  They  do  not  join  into  one 
another  like  a  running  hand.  Every  step  that  we  go  we  are  stopped  to 
admire  some  single  object,  like  walking  in  beautiful  scenery  with  a  guide. 
This  slowness  I  shall  elsewhere  have  occasion  to  remark  as  characteristic  of 
Fletcher.  Another  striking  difference  perceivable  between  Fletcher  and 
Shakspeare,  is  the  fondness  of  the  former  for  unnatural  and  violent  situa- 
tions, like  that  in  the  scene  before  us.  He  seems  to  have  thought  that 
nothing  great  could  be  produced  in  an  ordinary  way.  The  chief  incidents 
in  the  Wife  for  a  Month,  in  Cupid's  Revenge,  in  the  Double  Marriage,  and 
in  many  more  of  his  Tragedies,  show  this.  Shakspeare  had  nothing  of  this 
contortion  in  his  mind,  none  of  that  craving  after  romantic  incidents,  and 
flights  of  strained  and  improbable  virtue,  which  I  think  always  betrays  an 
imperfect  moral  sensibility. 


159  ENGLISH  DRAMATIC  POETS. 


She  show'd  she  had  to  leave  you  ;  and  then  taking 

Me  by  the  hand,  this  hand  which  I  must  ever 

Love  better  than  I  have  done,  since  she  touch'd  it,  . 

"  Go,"  said  she,  "  to  my  lord  (and  to  go  to  him 

"  Is  such  a  happiness  I  must  not  hope  for), 

"  And  tell  him  that  lie  too  much  priz'd  a  trifle 

"  Made  only  worthy  in  his  love,  and  her 

"  Thankful  acceptance,  for  her  sake  to  rob 

"  The  orphan  kingdom  of  such  guardians,  as 

"  Must  of  necessity  descend  from  him  ; 

"  And  therefore  in  some  part  of  recompence 

"  Of  his  much  love,  and  to  show  to  the  world 

(i  That  'twas  not  her  fault  only,  but  her  fate, 

"  That  did  deny  to  let  her  be  the  mother 

"  Of  such  most  certain  blessings  :  yet  for  proof, 

"  She  did  not  envy  her,  that  happy  her, 

"  That  is  appointed  to  them  ;  her  quick  end 

"  Should  make  way  for  her  :"  which  no  sooner  spoke, 

But  in  a  moment  this  too  ready  engine 

Made  such  a  battery  in  the  choicest  castle 

That  ever  Nature  made  to  defend  life, 

That  straight  it  shook  and  sunk. 


WIT  WITHOUT  MONEY  :  A  COMEDY.     BY  JOHN  FLETCHER. 

The  humor  of  a  Gallant  who  will  not  be  persuaded  to  keep  his  Lands,  but 
chooses  to  live  by  his  Wits  rather. 

Valentine's  Uncle.     Merchant,  tcho  has  his  Mortgage. 

Mer.  When  saw  you  Valentine  ? 

Unc.  Not  since  the  horse  race. 
He's  taken  up  with  those  that  woo  the  widow. 

Mer.  How  can  he  live  by  snatches  from  such  people  ? 
He  bore  a  worthy  mind. 

Unc.  Alas,  he's  sunk, 
His  means  are  gone,  he  wants  ;  and,  whioh  i    worse, 
Takes  a  delight  in  doing  so. 


WIT  WITHOUT  MONEY  159 

Mer.   That's  strange. 

Unc.   Runs  lunatic  if  you  but  talk  of  states ; 
He  can't  be  brought  (now  he  has  spent  his  own) 
To  think  there  is  inheritance,  or  means, 
But  all  a  common  riches ;  all  men  bound 
To  be  his  bailiffs. 

Mer.  This  is  something  dangerous. 

Unc.     No  gentleman,  that  has  estate,  to  use  it 
In  keeping  house  or  followers  :  for  those  ways 
He  cries  against  for  eating  sins,  dull  surfeits, 
Cramming  of  serving-men,  mustering  of  beggars, 
Maintaining  hospitals  for  kites  and  curs, 
Grounding  their  fat  faiths  upon  old  country  proverbs, 
"  God  bless  the  founders  :"  these  he  would  have  ventur'd 
Into  more  manly  uses,  wit  and  carriage ; 
And  never  thinks  of  state  or  means,  the  ground-works  : 
Holding  it  monstrous,  men  should  feed  their  bodies, 
And  starve  their  understandings. 

Valentine  joins  them. 

Val.  Now  to  your  business,  uncle. 

Unc.  To  your  state  then. 

Val.  'Tis  gone,  and  I  am  glad  on  't,  name  't  no  more, 
'Tis  that  I  pray  against,  and  heaven  has  heard  me ; 
I  tell  you,  sir,  I  am  more  fearful  of  it 
(I  mean,  of  thinking  of  more  lands  or  livings), 
Than  sickly  men  are  o'  travelling  o'  Sundays, 
For  being  quell'd  with  carriers ;  out  upon  't ; 
Caveat  emptor  j  let  the  fool  out-sweat  it, 
That  thinks  he  has  got  a  catch  on  't. 

Unc.  This  is  madness, 
To  he  a  wilful  beggar. 

Val.  I  am  mad  then, 
And  so  I  mean  to  be  ;  will  that  content  you  ? 
How  bravely  now  I  live  !  how  jocund  ! 
How  near  the  first  inheritance  !  without  fears  ' 
How  free  from  title  troubles  ! 

Unc.   And  from  means  too  ' 


i                                 E    CJLISH  DRAMATIC  POETS. 
Val.  Means 


W  liv,  all  good  men's  my  m  ans  ;   my  wit 's  my  plough  ; 

The  town  "s  my  stock,  tavern  's  my  standing-house 

(And  all  the  world  know,  there  's  no  want)  :  all  gentlemen 

That  love  society,  love  me  ;  all  purses 

That  wit  and  pleasure  opens,  are  my  tenants; 

Every  man's  clothes  lit  me  ;  the  next  fair  lodging 

Is  but  my  next  remove;  and  when  I  please 

To  be  more  eminent,  and  take  the  air, 

\  piece  is  levied,  and  a  coach  prepar'd, 

And  I  go  I  care  not  whithi  r :   what  need  state  here  1 

Unc.  But  say  these  means  were  honest,  will  they  last,  sir? 
Val.  Far  longer  than  your  jerkin,  and  wear  fairer. 
Your  mind  's  enclos'd,  nothing  lies  open  nobly  ; 
Your  very  thoughts  are  hinds,  that  work  on  nothing 
But  daily  sweat  and  trouble  :  were  my  way 
So  full  of  dirt  as  this  ('tis  true)  I  'd  shift  it. 
Are  my  acquaintance  Graziers  ?     But,  sir,  know  ; 
No  man  that  1  'm  allied  to  in  my  living, 

But  makes  it  equal  whether  his  own  use 
Or  my  necessity  pull  first;  nor  is  this  fore'd, 
But  the  meer  quality  and  poisure  of  goodness. 
And  do  you  think  I  venture  nothing  equal  ? 
Unc.  You  pose  me,  cousin. 
Val.  What's  my  knowledge,  uncle  ? 
Is  't  not  worth  money  ?   what's  my  understanding  ? 
Travel  ?  reading  ?  wit  ?  all  these  digested  ?  my  daily 
Making  men,  some  to  speak,  that  too  much  phlegm 
Had  froz'n  up  ;  some,  that  spoke  too  much,  to  hold 
Their  peace,  and  put  their  tongues  to  pensions  ;  some 
To  wear  their  cloaths,  and  some  to  keep  'em  :  these 
Are  nothing,  uncle  ?  besides  these  ways,  to  teach 
The  way  of  nature,  a  manly  love,  communitv 
To  all  that  are  deservers,  not  examining 
How  much  or  what's  done  for  them  ;   it  is  wicked. 
Are  not  these  ways  as  honest,  as  persecuting 

.    e  Marv'd  inheritance  with  mustv  corn, 
The  very  rats  were  fain  to  run  awav  from  ? 


itii;  TWO  NOBLE  KINSMEN  161 

Or  selling  rotten  wood  by  the  pound,  like  spices, 

Which  gentlemen  do  after  burn  by  the  ounces? 

Do  not  I  know  your  way  of  feeding  beasts 

With  grains,  and  windy  stuff,  to  blow  up  butchers  ? 

\  our  racking  pastures,  that  have  eaten  up 

As  many  singing  shepherds,  and  their  issues, 

A-  Andaluzia  breeds?     These  are  authentic. 

I  tell  you,  sir,  I  would  not  change  way  with  you  ; 

Unless  it  were  to  sell  your  state  that  hour, 

And  (if  'twere  possible)  to  spend  it  then  too ; 

For  all  your  beans  in  Rumnillo  :  now  you  know  me. 

[The  wit  of  Fletcher  is  excellent,  like   his   serious   scenes:  but  there  is 
thing  strained  and  far-fetched   in  both.     He  is  too  mistrustfnl  of  Na- 
ture ;  lie  always  goes  a  little   on  one  side  of  her.     Shakspeare  chose  her 
without  a  reserve :  and  had  riches,  power,  understanding,  and  long  life, 
with  her,  for  a  dowry.] 


THE  TWO  NOBLE  KINSMEN      A  TRAGEDY.     BY  JOHN 

FLETCHER.' 

Three  Queens,  whose  Lords  were  slain  and  their  bodies  denied  burial  by 
Creon,  the  cruel  King  of  Thebes,  seek  redress  from  Theseus,  Duke  of 
Athens,  on  the  day  of  his  marriage  with  Hippolita,  Queen  of  the  Ama- 
zons. The  first  Queen  falls  down  at  the  feet  of  Theseus  ;  the  second 
at  the  feet  of  Hippolita,  his  bride  ;  and  the  third  implores  the  mediation 
of  Emilia,  his  Sister. 

1st  Qu.  to  Thes.  For.  pity's  sake,  and  true  gentility, 
Hear  and  respect  me. 

2d  Qu.  to  Hip.   For  your  mother's  sake. 
And  as  you  wish  your  womb  may  thrive  with  fair  ones, 
1 1  ear  and  respect  me. 

Zrd  Qu.  to  Emil.   Now    for   the    love  of  him   whom   Jove  hath 
mark'd 
The  honor  of  your  bed,  and  for  the  sake 
1  >f  clear  virginity,  be  advocate 

*  Fletcher  is  said  to  have  been  assisted  in  this  Play  by  Shakspeare 
TART  II.  i   ' 


162  ENGLISH  DRAMATIC  POETS 


For  us  and  our  distresses  :  this  good  deed 
Shall  raze  you  out  of  the  book  of  trespasses 
All  you  are  set  down  there. 

Thes.  Sad  lady,  rise. 

Hip.  Stand  up. 

Emil.  No  knees  to  me. 
What  woman  I  may  stead,  that  is  distrest, 
Does  bind  me  to  her. 

Thes.  What's  your  request  ?     Deliver  you  for  al. 

1st  Qu.   We  are  three  queens,  whose  sovereigns  fell  before 
The  wrath  of  cruel  Creon  ;   who  endure 
The  beaks  of  ravens,  talons  of  the  kites, 
And  peck  of  crows,  in  the  foul  field  of  Thebes. 
He  will  not  suffer  us  to  burn  their  bones, 
To  urn  their  ashes,  nor  to  take  th'  offence 
Of  mortal  loathsomeness  from  the  blest  eye 
Of  holy  Phoebus,  but  infects  the  winds 
With  stench  of  our  slain  lords.     Oh  pity,  duke, 
Thou  purger  of  the  earth,  draw  thy  fear'd  sword 
That  does  good  turns  to  th'  world  ;  give  us  the  bones 
Of  our  dead  kings,  that  we  may  chapel  them  ; 
And,  of  thy  boundless  goodness,  take  some  note 
That  for  our  crowned  heads  we  have  no  roof, 
Save  this  which  is  the  lion's  and  the  bear's, 
And  vault  to  everything. 

Thes.  Pray  you  kneel  not, 
I  was  transported  with  your  speech,  and  suffer'd 
Your  knees  to  wrong  themselves:  I  have  heard  the  fortunes 
Of  your  dead  lords,  which  gives  me  such  lamenting, 
As  wakes  my  vengeance  and  revenge  for  them. 
King  Capaneus  was  your  lord  :  the  day 
That  he  should  marry  you,  at  such  a  season 
As  now  it  is  with  me,  I  met  your  groom  ; 
By  Mars's  altar,  you  were  that  time  fair, 
Not  Juno's  mantle  fairer  than  your  tresses, 
Nor  in  more  bounty  spread  her.     Your  wheaten  wreath 
Was  not  then  thrash'd  nor  blasted  :  Fortune  at  you 
Dimpled  her  cheek  with  smiles  :  Hercules,  our  kinsman, 


THE  TWO  NOBLE  KINSMEN.  163 


(Then  weaker  than  your  eyes)  laid  by  his  club; 
He  tumbled  down  upon  his  Nemean  hide, 
And  swore  his  sinews  thaw'd.      Oh,  grief,  and  time, 
Fearful  consumers,  you  will  all  devour. 

1st  Qu.  Oh  I  hope  some  god, 
Some  god  hath  put  his  mercy  in  your  manhood, 
Whereto  he  '11  infuse  power,  and  press  you  forth 
Our  undertaker. 

Thes.   Oh,  no  knees,  none,  widow  ; 
Unto  the  hel meted  Bellona  use  them, 
And  pray  for  me  your  soldier. 
Troubled  I  am. 

2d  Qu.   Honor'd  Hippolita, 
Most  dreaded  Amazonian,  that  hast  slain 
The  scythe-tusk'd  boar  ;   that  with  thy  arm,  as  strong 
As  it  is  white,  wast  near  to  make  the  male 
To  thy  sex  captive,  but  that  this  thy  lord, 
Born  to  uphold  creation  in  that  honor 
First  Nature  styled  it  in,  shrunk  thee  into 
The  bound  thou  wast  o'erflowing,  at  once  subduing 
Thy  force  and  thy  affection  :  Soldieress, 
That  equally  canst  poise  sternness  v/ith  pity, 
Who  now  I  know  hast  much  more  power  on  him 
Than  ever  he  had  on  thee,  who  ow'st  his  strength 
And  his  love  too  ;   who  is  a  servant  for 
The  tenor  of  the  speech  :  Dear  glass  of  ladies, 
Bid  him  that  we,  whom  flaming  war  doth  scorch. 
Under  the  shadow  of  his  sword  may  cool  us  : 
Require  him  he  advance  it  o'er  our  heads  ; 
Speak  't  in  a  woman's  key,  like  such  a  woman 
As  any  of  us  three  :  weep  ere  you  fail ;  lend  us  a  knee, 
But  touch  the  ground  for  us  no  longer  time 
Than  a  dove's  motion  when  the  head  's  pluckt  off: 
Tell  him  if  he  i'  th'  blood-siz'd  field  lay  swoln. 
Showing  the  sun  his  teeth,  grinning  at  the  moon, 
What  you  would  do. 

Hip.  Poor  lady,  say  no  more  ; 
I  had  as  lieve  trace  t hi—  'mod  action  with  you, 


}64  ENGLISH    DRAM  \ TIC   POETS. 

As  that  whereto  I  'm  going,  and  never  yet 
Went  I  so  willing  'way.     My  lord  is  taken 
Heart-deep  with  your  distress  ;  let  him  consider  ;    . 
I  '11  speak  anon. 

3rd  Qu.  to  Emil.  O  my  petition  was 
Set  down  in  ice,  which  by  hot  grief  uncandied 
Melts  into  drops,  so  sorrow  wanting  form 
Is  prest  with  deeper  matter. 

Emil.  Pray  stand  up, 
Your  grief  is  written  in  your  cheek. 

3rd  Qu.  Oh  wo, 
You  cannot  read  it  there  ;  there  through  my  tears, 
Like  wrinkled  pebbles  in  a  glassy  stream, 
You  may  behold  them.     Lady,  lady,  alack ! 
He  that  will  all  the  treasures  know  o'  th'  earth. 
Must  know  the  centre  too ;  he  that  will  fish 
For  my  least  minnow,  let  him  lead  his  line 
To  catch  one  at  my  heart.     O  pardon  me  ; 
Extremity  that  sharpens  sundry  wits 
Makes  me  a  fool. 

Emil.  Pray  you  say  nothing,  pray  you  ; 
Who  cannot  feel,  nor  see  the  rain,  being  in  't, 
Knows  neither  wet,  nor  dry  :  if  that  you  were 
The  ground-piece  of  some  painter,  I  would  buy  you 
T'  instruct  me  'gainst  a  capital  grief  indeed, 
Such  heart-pierc'd  demonstration  ;  but  alas 
Being  a  natural  sister  of  our  sex, 
Your  sorrow  beats  so  ardently  upon  me, 
That  it  shall  make  a  counter-reflect  'gainst 
My  brother's  heart,  and  warm  it  to  some  pity, 
Though  it  were  made  of  stone  :  pray  have  good  comfort. 

Thes.  Forward  to  th'  temple,  leave  not  out  a  jot 
O' th'  sacred  ceremony. 

1st.  Qu.  Oh  this  celebration 
Will  longer  last,  and  be  more  costly  than 
Your  suppliants'  war.     Remember  that  your  fame 
Knolls  in  the  ear  o'  th;  world  :  what  you  do  quickly, 
Is  not  done  rashly  ;  your  first  thought  is  more 


THK  TWO  NOBLE   KIXSMKX.  J65 


Than  others'  lahor'd  meditance  ;  your  premeditating 
More  than  their  actions  ;  but  oh  Jove,  your  actions, 
Soon  as  they  move,  as  Asprays  do  the  fish, 
Subdue  before  they  touch.     Think,  dear  duke,  think, 
What  beds  our  slain  kings  have. 

'2nd.  Qu.   What  griefs  our  beds, 
That  our  dear  lords  have  none. 

3rd.   Qu.  None  fit  for  the  dead  ; 
Those  that  with  cords,  knives,  drams,  precipitance, 
Weary  of  this  world's  light,  have  to  themselves 
Been  death's  most  horrid  agents,  human  grace 
Afibrds  them  dust  and  shadow. 

1st.  Qu.  But  our  lords 
Lie  blistering  'fore  the  visitatins:  sun, 
And  were  good  kings  when  living. 

Thes.  It  is  true,  and  I  will  give  you  comfort, 
To  give  your  dead  lords  graves  : 
The  which  to  do  must  make  some  work  with  Creon. 

1st.  Qu.  And  that  work  presents  itself  to  th'  doing  : 
Now  'twill  take  form,  the  heats  are  gone  to-morrow, 
Then  bootless  toil  must  recorapence  itself 
With  its  own  sweat ;  now  he  's  secure, 
Not  dreams  we  stand  before  your  puissance, 
Rincing  our  holy  begging  in  our  eyes 
To  make  petition  clear. 

2nd.  Qu.   Now  you  may  take  him 
Drunk  with  his  victory. 

3rd.  Qu.  And  his  army  full. 
Of  bread  and  sloth. 

Thes.  Artesis,  that  best  knowest 
How  to  draw  out,  fit  to  this  enterprize, 
The  prim'st  for  this  proceeding,  and  the  number 
To  carry  such  a  business  forth  ;  and  levy 
Our  worthiest  instruments,  whilst  we  dispatch 
This  grand  act  of  our  life,  this  daring  deed 
Of  fate  in  wedlock. 

1st.  Qu.  Dowagers,  take  hands  ; 
Let  us  be  widows  to  our  woes,  delay 


ENGLISH   DRAMATIC  POETS. 

Commends  us  to  a  famishing  hope. 

All.  Farewell. 

2nd.  Qu.   We  come  unseasonably.     But  when  could  grief 
Cull  forth,  as  unpang'd  judgment  can,  fit'st  time 
For  best  solicitation  ? 

Thes.   Why  good  ladies, 
This  is  a  service,  whereto  I  am  going, 
Greater  than  any  was  ;  it  more  imports  me 
Than  all  the  actions  that  I  have  foregone, 
Or  futurely  can  cope. 

1st.  Qu.   The  more  proclaiming 
Our  suit  shall  be  neglected,  when  her  arms, 
Able  to  lock  Jove  from  a  synod,  shall 
By  warranting  moon-light  corslet  thee.     Oh  when 
Her  twining  cherries  shall  their  sweetness  fall 
Upon  thy  tasteful  lips,  what  wilt  thou  think 
Of  rotten  kings,  or  blubber'd  queens  ?  what  care 
For  what  thou  feel'st  not?  what  thou  feel'st  being  able 
To  make  Mars  spurn  his  drum.     Oh  if  thou  couch 
But  one  night  with  her,  every  hour  in  '"t  will 
Take  hostage  of  thee  for  a  hundred,  and 
Thou  shalt  remember  nothing  more,  than  what 
That  banquet  bids  thee  to. 

Hip.  Though  much  unliking 
You  should  be  so  transported,  as  much  sorry 
I  should  be  such  a  suitor,  yet  I  think 
Did  I  not  by  th'  abstaining  of  my  joy 
Which  breeds  a  deeper  longing,  cure  their  surfei 
That  craves  a  present  med'eine,  I  should  pluck 
All  ladies'  scandal  on  me.     Therefore,  sir, 
As  I  shall  here  make  trial  of  my  prayers, 
Either  presuming  them  to  have  some  force, 
Or  sentencing  for  aye  their  vigor  dumb, 
Prorogue  this  business  we  are  going  about,  and  hang 
Your  shield  afore  your  heart,  about  that  neck 
Which  is  my  fee,  and  which  I  freely  lend 
To  do  those  poor  queens  service. 

All  Qu's.  to  Emit  Oh  help  now, 


THE  TWO  NOBLE  KINSMEN.  167 

Our  cause  cries  for  your  knee. 
hnil.  If  you  grant  not 
sister  her  petition  in  that  force, 
V.  ith  that  celerity  and  nature  which 
She  makes  it  in,  from  henceforth  I  '11  not  dare 
To  ask  you  anything,  nor  he  so  hardy 
Ever  to  take  a  husband. 
Thcs.   Pray  stand  up. 
I  am  entreating  of  mvself  to  do 
That  which  you  kneel  to  have  me;   Perithous, 
Lead  on  the  hride ;  get  you  and  pray  the  gods 
For  success  and  return  ;  omit  not  anything 
In  the  pretended  celebration;  queens, 
Follow  your  soldier  (as  before)  ;  hence  you, 
And  at  the  banks  of  Anly  meet  us  with 
The  forces  you  can  raise,  where  we  shall  find 
The  moiety  of  a  number,  for  a  business 
More  bigger  look  't.     Since  that  our  theme  is  haste, 
I  stamp  this  kiss  upon  thy  currant  lip ; 
Sweet,  keep  it  as  my  token.     Set  you  forward, 
For  I  will  see  you  gone. 

Hippolita  and  Emilia  discoursing  of  the  friendship  between  Perithous 
and  Theseus,  Emilia  relates  a  parallel  instance  of  the  love  between 
herself  and  Flavia  being  girls. 

Emit.  I  was  acquainted 
Once  with  a  time,  when  I  enjoy'd  a  play-fellow  ; 
You  were  at  wars,  when  she  the  grave  enrich'd, 
Who  made  too  proud  the  bed,  took  leave  o' th' moon 
(Which  then  look'd  pale  at  parting)  when  our  count 
Was  each  eleven. 

Hip.  'Twas  Flavia 

Emil.  Yes. 
You  talk  of  Perithous  and  Theseus'  love  ; 
Theirs  has  more  ground,  is  more  maturely  season'd, 
More  buckled  with  strong  judgment,  and  their  needs 
The  one  of  th'  other  may  be  said  to  water 
Their  intertangled  roots  of  love  ;  but  I 


163  ENGLISH  DRAMATIC  POETS. 

And  she  (I  sigh  and  spoke  of)  were  things  innocent, 
Loved  for  we  did,  and  like  the  elements, 

That  know  not  what,  nor  w  hv.  yet  do  effect 

Rare  issues  by  their  operance,  our  souls 

Did  so  to  one  another  ;   what  she  liked, 

Was  then  of  me  approved  ;  what  not  condemned, 

No  more  arraignment ;  the  flower  that  I  would  pluck, 

And  put  between  my  breasts  (Oh  then  but  beginning 

To  swell  about  the  bosom)  she  would  long 

Till  she  had  such  another,  and  commit  it 

To  the  like  innocent  cradle,  where  phoenix-like 

They  died  in  perfume :  on  my  head  no  toy 

But  was  her  pattern ;  her  affections  pretty, 

Though  happily  hers  careless  were,  I  followed 

For  my  most  serious  decking  ;  had  mine  ear 

Stolen  some  new  air,  or  at  adventure  humm'd  on 

From  musical  coinage,  why  it  was  a  note 

Whereon  her  spirits  would  sojourn  (rather  dwell  on) 

And  sing  it  in  her  slumbers  ;  this  rehearsal 

(  Which  every  innocent  wots  well)  comes  in 

Like  old  Importment's  bastard,  has  this  end  : 

That  the  true  love  'tween  maid  and  maid  may  be 

More  than  in  sex  dividual. 

Palamon  and  Arcite  repining  at  their  hard  condition,  in  being  made  cap- 
tives for  life  in  Athens,  derive  consolation  from  the  enjoyment  of  each 
otliers  company  in  prison. 

Pal.  How  do  you,  noble  cousin  ? 

Arc.  How  do  you,  sir  ? 

Pal.  Why  strong  enough  to  laugh  at  misery, 
And  bear  the  chance  of  war  yet ;  we  are  prisoners 
I  fear  for  ever,  cousin. 

Arc.  I  believe  it, 
And  to  that  destiny  have  patiently 
Laid  up  my  hour  to  come. 

Pal.  Oh  cousin  Arcite, 
Where  is  Thebes  now  ?  where  is  our  noble  country  ? 
Where  are  our  friends  and  kindreds  ?  never  more 
Must  we  behold  those  comforts,  never  see 


THE  TWO  NOBLE  KINSMEN.  169 


The  hardy  youths  strive  for  the  games  of  honor, 
Hung  with  the  painted  favors  of  their  ladies 
Like  tall  ships  under  sail ;  then  start  amongst  them, 
And  as  an  east  wind  leave  them  all  behind  us 
Like  lazy  clouds,  whilst  Palamon  and  Arcite, 
Even  in  the  wagging  of  a  wanton  leg, 
Out-stript  the  people's  praises,  won  the  garlands 
Ere  they  have  time  to  wish  them  ours.     Oh  never 
Shall  we  two  exercise,  like  twins  of  honor, 
Our  arms  again,  and  feel  our  fiery  horses 
Like  proud  seas  under  us,  our  good  swords  now 
(Better  the  red-eyed  god  of  war  ne'er  wore) 
Ravish'd  our  sides,  like  age,  must  run  to  rust, 
And  deck  the  temples  of  those  gods  that  hate  us  ; 
These  hands  shall  never  draw  them  out  like  lightning 
To  blast  whole  armies  more. 

Arc.  No,  Palamon, 
Those  hopes  are  prisoners  with  us  ;  here  we  are, 
And  here  the  graces  of  our  youths  must  wither 
Like  a  too  timely  spring  ;  here  age  must  find  us, 
And  (which  is  heaviest)  Palamon,  unmarried  ; 
The  sweet  embraces  of  a  loving  wife 
Loaden  with  kisses,  arm'd  with  thousand  cupids, 
Shall  never  clasp  our  necks,  no  issue  know  us, 
No  figures  of  ourselves  shall  we  e'er  see, 
To  glad  our  age,  and  like  young  eagles  teach  them 
Boldly  to  gaze  against  bright  arms,  and  say, 
"  Remember  what  your  fathers  were,  and  conquer." 
The  fair-eyed  maids  shall  weep  our  banishments, 
And  in  their  songs  curse  ever-blinded  Fortune, 
Till  she  for  shame  see  what  a  wrong  she  has  done 
To  youth  and  nature.     This  is  all  our  world : 
We  shall  know  nothing  here,  but  one  another  ; 
Hear  nothing,  but  the  clock  that  tells  our  woes. 
The  vine  shall  grow,  but  we  shall  never  see  it : 
Summer  shall  come,  and  with  her  all  delights, 
But  dead-cold  winter  must  inhabit  here  still. 

Pal    'Tis  too  true.  Arcite,      To  our  Theban  hounds, 


rGLISH  DRAMATIC  POETS. 


That  shook  the  aged  forest  with  their  echoes, 

No  more  now  must  we  halloo,  no  more  shake 

Our  pointed  javelins,  whilst  the  angry  swine 

Flies  like  a  Parthian  quiver  from  our  rages, 

Struck  with  our  well-steel'd  darts.     All  valiant  uses 

(The  food  and  nourishment  of  noble  minds) 

In  us  two  here  shall  perish  :  we  shall  die 

( 'Which  is  the  curse  of  honor)  lastly 

Children  of  grief  and  ignorance. 

Arc.  Yet  cousin, 
Even  from  the  bottom  of  these  miseries, 
From  all  that  fortune  can  inflict  upon  us, 
I  see  two  comforts  rising,  two  mere  blessings, 
If  the  gods  please  to  hold  here ;  a  brave  patience, 
And  the  enjoying  of  our  griefs  together. 
Whilst  Palamon  is  with  me,  let  me  perish 
If  I  think  this  our  prison. 

Pal.  Certainly 
'Tis  a  main  goodness,  cousin,  that  our  fortunes 
Were  twin'd  together  ;   'tis  most  true,  two  souls 
Put  in  two  noble  bodies,  let  them  suffer 
The  gall  of  hazard,  so  they  grow  together, 
WTill  never  sink  ;  they  must  not ;  say  they  could, 
A  willing  man  dies  sleeping,  and  all  's  done. 

Arc.  Shall  we  make  worthy  uses  of  this  place 
That  all  men  hate  so  much  1 

Pal.  How,  gentle  cousin  ? 

Arc.  Let  's  think  this  prison  holy  sanctuary, 
To  keep  us  from  corruption  of  worse  men  ; 
We  are  young,  and  yet  desire  the  ways  of  honor, 
That  liberty  and  common  conversation, 
The  poison  of  pure  spirits,  might  (like  women) 
Woo  us  to  wander  from.      What  worthy  blessing 
Can  be,  but  our  imaginations 

May  make  it  ours  ?     And  here  being  thus  together, 
We  are  an  endless  mine  to  one  another  ; 
We  are  one  another's  wife,  ever  begetting 
New  births  of  love  ;  we  are  father,  friends,  acquaintance 


THE  TWO  NOBLE  KINSMEN.  171 

We  are,  in  one  another,  families  ; 

I  am  your  heir,  and  you  are  mine.     This  place 

Is  our  inheritance  ;  no  hard  oppressor 

Dare  take  this  from  us  ;  here  with  a  little  patience 

We  shall  live  long,  and  loving  ;  no  surfeits  seek  us  ; 

The  hand  of  war  hurts  none  here,  nor  the  seas 

.Swallow  their  youth.      Were  we  at  liberty, 

A  wife  might  part  us  lawfully,  or  business  ; 

Quarrels  consume  us  ;  envy  of  ill  men 

Crave  our  acquaintance  ;  I  might  sicken,  cousin, 

Where  you  should  never  know  it,  and  so  perish 

Without  your  noble  hand  to  close  mine  eyes, 

Or  prayers  to  the  gods  :  a  thousand  chances, 

Were  we  from  hence,  would  sever  us. 

Pal.  You  have  made  me 
(I  thank  you,  Cousin  Arcite)  almost  wanton 
With  my  captivity  :  what  a  misery 
It  is  to  live  abroad,  and  everywhere  ! 
'Tis  like  a  beast  methinks  !  I  find  the  court  here, 
I  :m  sure  a  more  content ;  and  all  those  pleasures, 
That  woo  the  wills  of  men  to  vanity, 
I  see  through  now  ;  and  am  sufficient 
To  tell  the  world,  'tis  but  a  gaudy  shadow, 
That  old  Time,  as  he  passes  by,  takes  with  him. 
What,  had  we  been  old  in  the  Court  of  Creon, 
Where  sin  is  justice,  lust  and  ignorance 
The  virtues  of  the  great  ones  ?  Cousin  Arcite, 
Had  not  the  loving  gods  found  this  place  for  us, 
We  had  died,  as  they  do,  ill  old  men,  unwept, 
And  had  their  epitaphs,  the  people's  curses. 

[This  scene  bears  indubitable  marks  of  Fletcher  :  the  two  which  precede 
it  ive  strong  countenance  to  the  tradition  that  Shakspeare  had  a  hand  in 
this  play.  The  same  judgment  may  be  formed  of  the  death  of  Arcite,  and 
other  passages,  not  here  given.  They  have  a  luxuriance  in  them 
which  strongly  resembles  Shakspeare's  manner  in  those  parts  of  his  playa 
where,  the  progress  of  the  interest  being  subordinate,  the  poet  was  at  lei- 
sure for  description.  I  might  letch  instances  from  Troilus  and  Timon. 
Tlr.it  Fletcher  should  have  copied  Shakspeare's  manner  through  so  many 
entire  *.:«■'   es  (which   is   the   theory  of  Mr.  Steevens)  is  not  very  probable. 


172  ENGLISH  DRAMATIC  POETS. 

that  he  could  have  done  it  with  such  facility  is  to  me  not  certain.  His  ideas 
move  slow  ;  his  versification,  though  sweet,  is  tedious,  it  stops  every 
moment;  he  lays  line  upon  Line,  making  up  one  after  the.  other,  adding 
image  to  image  so  deliberately  that  we  see  where  they  join:  Shakspeare 
mingles  everything,  he  runs  line  into  line,  embarrasses  sentences  and  meta- 
phors :  before  one  idea  has  burst  its  shell,  another  is  hatched  and  clamorous 
I'.ir  disclosure.  If  Fletcher  wrote  some  scenes  in  imitation,  why  did  he 
std|)  ?  or  shall  we  say  that  Shakspeare  wrote  the  other  scenes  in  imitation 
of  Fletcher  ?  that  he  gave  Shakspeare  a  curb  and  a  bridle,  and  that  Shak- 
speare gave  him  a  pair  of  spurs:  as  Blackmore  and  Lucan  are  brought  in 
exchanging  gifts  in  the  Battle  of  the  Books  ?] 


THE  CITY   MADAM:    A  COMEDY.     BY  PHILIP  MASSINGER. 

Luke,  from  a  state  of  indigence  and  dependence,  is  suddenly  raised  into 
immense  affluence  by  a  deed  of  gift  of  the  estates  of  his  brother,  Sir  John 
Frugal,  a  merchant,  retired  from  the  world.  He  enters,  from  taking 
a  survey  of  his  new  riches. 

Lute.   'Twas  no  fantastic  object  but  a  truth, 
A  real  truth,  no  dream.     I  did  not  slumber  ; 
And  could  wake  ever  with  a  brooding  eye 
To  gaze  upon  't !  it  did  endure  the  touch, 
I  saw,  and  felt  it.     Yet  what  I  beheld 
And  handled  oft,  did  so  transcend  belief 
(My  wonder  and  astonishment  pass'd  o'er) 
I  faintly  could  give  credit  to  my  senses. 
Thou  dumb  magician,  [To  the  Key. 

That  without  a  charm 
Didst  make  my  entrance  easy  to  possess 
What  wise  men  wish  and  toil  for.     Hermes'  Moly ; 
Sybilla's  golden  bough  ;  the  great  elixir 
Imagin'd  only  by  the  alchymist ; 
Compar'd  with  thee,  are  shadows,  thou  the  substance 
And  guardian  of  felicity.     No  marvel, 
My  brother  made  thy  place  of  rest  his  bosom, 
Thou  being  the  keeper  of  his  heart,  a  mistress 
To  be  hugg'd  ever.      In  by-corners  of 
This  sacred  room,  silver,  in  bags  h  ap'rl  up 


CITY  MADAM.  H.*» 


Like  billets  saw'd  and  ready  for  the  fire, 
Unworthy  to  hold  fellowship  with  bright  gold, 
That  flow'd  about  the  room,  conceal'd  itself. 
There  needs  no  artificial  light,  the  splendor 
Makes  a  perpetual  day  there,  night  and  darkness 
By  that  still-burning  lamp  for  ever  banish'd. 
But  when,  guided  by  that,  my  eyes  had  made 
Discovery  of  the  caskets,  and  they  open'd, 
Each  sparkling  diamond  from  itself  shot  forth 
A  pyramid  of  flames,  and  in  the  roof 
Fix'd  it  a  glorious  star,  and  made  the  place 
Heaven's  abstract,  or  epitome  ;   Rubies,  sapphires, 
And  robes  of  orient  pearl,  these  seen,  I  could  not 
But  look  on  gold  with  contempt.     And  yet  I  found, 
What  weak  credulity  could  have  no  faith  in. 
A  treasure  far  exceeding  these.     Here  lay 
A  manor  bound  fast  in  a  skin  of  parchment ; 
The  wax  continuing  hard,  the  acres  melting. 
1  [ere  a  sure  deed  of  gift  for  a  market  town, 
If  not  redeem'd  this  day  ;  which  is  not  in 
The  unthrift's  power.     There  being  scarce  one  shire 
In  Wales  or  England,  where  my  monies  are  not 
Lent  out  at  usury,  the  certain  hook 
To  draw  in  more. 

The  extravagance   of  the    City  Madams    aping   court  fashions   repre- 
hended. 
Luke,  having  come  into  the  possession  of  his  brother  Sir  John  FrugaPs 

estates.    Lady,  wife  to  Sir  John  Frugal,  and  tivo  daughters,  in  homely 

attire. 

Luke,  Save  you,  sister  ; 
I  now  dare  style  you  so.    You  were  before 
Too  glorious  to  be  look'd  on  :   now  you  appear 
Like  a  city  matron,  and  my  pretty  nieces 
Such  things 

As  thev  were  born  and  bred  there.     Why  should  you  ape 
The  fashions  of  court  ladies,  whose  high  titles 
And  pedigrees  of  long  descent  give  warrant 


174  K.MJLISH  DRAMATIC  POETS. 


For  their  superfluous  bravery  ?  'twas  monstrous 
Till  now  you  ne'er  look'd  lovely. 

Lady.   Is  this  spoken 
In  scorn  ? 

Luke.  Fie,  no;  with  judgment,  I  make  good 
My  promise,  and  now  show  you  like  yourselves, 
In  your  own  natural  shapes. 

Lady.    We  acknowledge 
We  have  deserv'd  ill  from  you,*  yet  despair  not, 
Though  we  're  at  your  disposure,  you  '11  maintain  us 
Like  your  brother's  wife  and  daughters. 

Luke.    'Tis  my  purpose. 

Lady.  And  not  make  us  ridiculous. 

Luke.    Admir'd  rather 
As  fair  examples  for  our  proud  city  dames 
And  their  proud  brood  to  imitate.     Hear 
Gently,  and  in  gentle  phrase  I  '11  reprehend 
Your  late  disguis'd  deformity. 
Your  father  was 

An  honest  country  farmer,  Goodman  Humble, 
By  his  neighbors  ne'er  call'd  master.     Did  your  pride 
Descend  from  him  ?    but  let  that  pass.     Your  fortune, 
Or  rather  your  husband's  industry,  advane'd  you 
To  the  rank  of  merchant's  wife.     He  made  a  knight, 
And  your  sweet  mistress-ship  ladyfy'd,  you  wore 
Satin  on  solemn  days,  a  chain  of  gold, 
A  velvet  hood,  rich  borders,  and  sometimes 
A  dainty  miniver  cap,  a  silver  pin 
Headed  with  a  pearl  worth  three-pence  ;   and  thus  far 
You  were  privileg'd,  and  no  man  envied  it  : 
It  being  for  the  city's  honor  that 
There  should  be  distinction  between 

The  wife  of  a  patrician  and  a  plebeian. 

But  when  the  height 

And  dignity  of  London's  blessings  grew 

*  In  his  dependent  state  they  had  treated  him  very  cruelly.     They  are 
now  dependent  on  him 


CITY  MADAM.  175 


Contemptible,  and  the  name  lad}'  mayoress 

Became  a  by-word,  and  you  scorn'd  the  means 

By  which  you  were  rais'd  (my  brother's  fond  indulgence 

Giving  the  reins  to  't)  and  no  object  pleas'd  you 

But  the  glitt'ring  pomp  and  bravery  of  the  court ; 

What  a  strange,  nay  monstrous  metamorphosis  follow'd ! 

No  English  workmen  then  could  please  your  fancy ; 

The  French  and  Tuscan  dress,  your  whole  discourse ; 

This  bawd  to  prodigality  entertain'd, 

To  buz  into  your  ears,  what  shape  this  countess 

Appear'd  in,  the  last  mask  ;  and  how  it  drew 

The  young  lord's  eyes  upon  her :  and  this  usher 

Succeeded  in  the  eldest  'prentice's  place, 

To  walk  before  you.     Then,  as  I  said 

(The  reverend  hood  cast  off),  your  borrow'd  hair, 

Powder'd  and  curl'd,  was  by  your  dresser's  art 

Form'd  like  a  coronet,  hang'd  with  diamonds, 

And  the  richest  orient  pearl :  your  carkanets, 

That  did  adorn  your  neck,  of  equal  value  ; 

Your  Hungerland  bands,  and  Spanish  Quellio  ruffs  : 

Great  lords  and  ladies  feasted,  to  survey 

Embroider'd  petticoats  ;    and  sickness  feign'd, 

That  your  nightrails  of  forty  pounds  a-piece 

Might  be  seen  with  envy  of  the  visitants  : 

Rich  pantables  in  ostentation  shown, 

And  roses  worth  a  family.     You  were  serv'd 

In  plate  ; 

Stirr'd  not  a  foot  without  a  coach  ;  and  going 

To  church,  not  for  devotion,  but  to  show 

Your  pomp,  you  were  tickled  when  the  beggars  cried 

Heaven  save  your  honor.      Tliis  idolatry 

Paid  to  a  painted  room.     And,  when  you  lay 

In  childbed,  at  the  christening  of  this  minx, 

1  well  remember  it,  as  you  had  been 

An  absolute  princess  (since  they  have  no  more) 

Three  several  chambers  hung :  the  first  with  arras, 

And  that  for  waiters ;  the  second,  crimson  satin, 

For  the  meaner  sort  of  guests  :    th^  third  of  scarlet 


176  ENGLISH  DRAMATIC  POETS. 

Of  the  rich  Tynan  dye:  a  canopy 

To  cover  the  brat's  cradle ;  you  in  state, 

Like  Pompey's  Julia. 

Lady.  No  more,  I  pray  you. 

Luke.  Of  this  be  sure  you  shall  not.     I  '11  cut  off 
Whatever  is  exorbitant  in  you, 
( )r  in  your  daughters ;  and  reduce  you  to 
lour  natural  forms  and  habits:  not  in  revenge 
Of  your  base  usage  of  me  ;   but  to  fright 
( >thers  by  your  example. 

[This  bitter  satire  against  the  city  women  for  aping  the  fashions  of  the 
court  ladies,  must  have  been  peculiarly  gratifying  to  the  females  of  th« 
Herbert  family  and  the  rest  of  Massinger's  noble  patrons  and  patronesses. 


A  NEW  WAY   TO  PAY   OLD    DEBTS  :   A  COMEDY.     BY    PHILIP 

MASSINGER. 

Overreach  (a  cruel  extortioner)  treats  about  marrying  hix  daughter  with 

Lord  Lovell. 

Lovell.     Overreach. 

Over.  To  my  wish  we  are  private. 
I  come  not  to  make  offer  with  my  daughter 
A  certain  portion  ;   that  were  poor  and  trivial  : 
In  one  word  I  pronounce  all  that  is  mine, 
In  lands  or  leases,  ready  coin  or  goods, 
With  her,  my  lord,  comes  to  you  ;  nor  shall  you  have 
One  motive  to  induce  you  to  believe 
I  live  too  long,  since  every  year  I'll  add 
Something  unto  the  heap,  which  shall  be  yours  too. 

Lov.  You  are  a  right  kind  father. 

Over.  You  shall  have  reason 
To  think  me  such.      How  do  you  like  this  seat  ? 
It  is  well-wooded  and  well-water'd,  the  acres 
Fertile  and  rich  :  would  it  not  serve  for  change, 
To  entertain  your  friends  in  a  summer's  progress? 
What  thinks  mv  noble  lord  ? 


NEW  WAY  TO  PAY  OLD  DEBTS.  177 


Lov.  'Tis  a  wholesome  air, 
And  well  built,  and  she,*  that  is  mistress  of  it, 
Worthy  the  large  revenues. 
Over.  She  the  mistress  ? 
It  may  be  so  for  a  time :  but  let  my  lord 
Say  only  that  he  but  like  it,  and  would  have  it; 
I  say,  ere  long  'tis  his. 
Lov.  Impossible. 

Over.  You  do  conclude  too  fast;  not  knowing  me, 
Nor  the  engines  that  I  work  by.     'Tis  not  alone 
The  lady  Allworth's  lands  :  but  point  out  any  man's 
In  all  the  shire,  and  say  they  lie  convenient 
And  useful  for  your  lordship ;  and  once  more 
I  say  aloud,  they  are  yours. 

Lov.  I  dare  not  own 
What's  by  unjust  and  cruel  means  extorted  : 
My  fame  and  credit  are  more  dear  to  me, 
Than  so  to  expose  'em  to  be  censur'd  by 
The  public  voice. 

Over    You  run,  my  lord,  no  hazard  : 
Your  reputation  shall  stand  as  fair 
In  all  good  men's  opinions  as  now  : 
Nor  can  my  actions,  though  condemn'd  for  ill, 
Cast  any  foul  aspersion  upon  yours. 
For  though  I  do  contemn  report  myself, 
As  a  mere  sound  ;  I  still  will  be  so  tender 
Of  what  concerns  you  in  all  points  of  honor, 
That  the  immaculate  whiteness  of  your  fame, 
Nor  your  unquestioned  integrity, 
Shall  e'er  be  sullied  with  one  taint  or  spot 
That  may  take  from  your  innocence  and  candor. 
As   my  ambition  is  to  have  my  daughter 
Right  honorable;  which  my  lord  can  make  her: 
And  might  I  live  to  dance  upon  my  knee 
A  young  lord  Lovell,  born  by  her  unto  you, 
I  write  nil  ultra  to  my  proudest  hopes. 

*  The  Lady  Allworth. 

!!.  13 


-8  KNdLISil  UKAMATJC  POETS 


As  for  possessions  and  annual  rents, 

Equivalent  to  maintain  you  in  the  port 

Your  noble  birth  and  presenl  state  require, 

I  do  remove  that  burden  from  your  shoulders, 

And  take  it  on  mine  own  :  for  though  I  ruin 

The  country  to  supply  your  riotous  waste, 

The  scourge  of  prodigals  (want)  shall  never  find  you. 

Lov.  Are  you  not  frighted  with  the  imprecations 
And  curses  of  whole  families,  made  wretched 
By  your  sinister  practices  ? 

Over.  Yes,  as  rocks  are 
When  foamy  billows  split  themselves  against 
Their  flinty  ribs ;  or  as  the  moon  is  mov'd 
When  wolves,  with  hunger  pined,  howl  at  her  brightness. 
I  am  of  a  solid  temper,  and,  like  these, 
Steer  on  a  constant  course :  with  mine  own  sword, 
If  call'd  into  the  field,  I  can  make  that  right, 
Which  fearful  enemies  murmur'd  at  as  wrong. 
Now,  for  those  other  piddling  complaints, 
Breath'd  cut  in  bitterness ;  as,  when  they  call  me 
Extortioner,  tyrant,  cormorant,  or  intruder 
On  my  poor  neighbor's  right,  or  grand  encloser 
Of  what  was  common  to  my  private  use  ; 
Nay,  when  my  ears  are  pierc'd  with  widows'  cries, 
And  undone  orphans  wash  with  tears  my  threshold  : 
I  only  think  what  'tis  to  have  my  daughter 
Right  honorable  ;  and  'tis  a  powerful  charm, 
Makes  me  insensible  of  remorse  or  pity, 
Or  the  least  sting  of  conscience. 

Lov.  I  admire 
The  toughness  of  your  nature. 

Over.  'Tis  for  you, 
My  lord  and  for  my  daughter,  I  am  marble. 


THE  PICTURE.  179 


THE   PICTURE:   A  TRAGI-COMEDY.     BY   PHILIP   MASSINGER. 

Matthias,  a  knight  of  Bohemia,  going  to  the  tears  ;  in  parting  with  his 
tvife,  shows  her  substantial  reasons  why  he  should  go. 

Matthias.     Sophia. 

Mat.  Since  we  must  part,  Sophia,  to  pass  further 
Is  not  alone  impertinent,  but  dangerous. 
We  are  not  distant  from  the  Turkish  camp 
Above  five  leagues ;  and  who  knows  but  some  party 
Of  his  Timariots,  that  scour  the  country, 
May  fall  upon  us  ?     Be  now,  as  thy  name 
Truly  interpreted*  hath  ever  spoke  thee, 
Wise  and  discreet ;  and  to  thy  understanding 
Marry  thy  constant  patience. 

Soph.   You  put  me,  sir, 
To  the  utmost  trial  of  it. 

Mat.   Nay,  no  melting  : 
Since  the  necessity,  that  now  separates  us, 
We  have  long  since  disputed  ;  and  the  reasons, 
Forcing  me  to  it,  too  oft  wash'd  in  tears. 
I  grant  that  you  in  birth  were  far  above  me, 
And  great  men  my  superiors  rivals  for  you ; 
But  mutual  consent  of  heart,  as  hands 
Join'd  by  true  love,  hath  made  us  one  and  equal  : 
Nor  is  it  in  me  mere  desire  of  fame, 
Or  to  be  cried  up  by  the  public  voice 
For  a  brave  soldier,  that  puts  on  my  armor  ; 
Such  airy  tumors  take  not  me  :  you  know 
How  narrow  our  demeans  are  ;  and  what's  more, 
Having  as  yet  no  charge  of  children  on  us, 
We  hardly  can  subsist. 

Soph.   In  you  alone,  sir, 
I  have  all  abundance. 

Mat.   For  my  mind's  content, 
In  your  own  language  I  could  answer  you. 

*  Sophia ;  wisdom 


180  ENGLISH  DRAMATIC  POETS. 


You  have  been  an  obedient  wife,  a  right  one ; 

And  to  my  power,  though  short  of  your  desert, 

I  have  been  ever  an  indulgent  husband. 

W  e  have  long  enjoy'd  the  sweets  of  love,  and  though 

Not  to  satiety  or  loathing,  yet 

We  must  not  live  such  dotards  on  our  pleasures, 

As  still  to  hug  them  to  the  certain  loss 

Of  profit  and  preferment.     Competent  means 

Maintains  a  quiet  bed,  want  breeds  dissension 

Even  in  good  women. 

Soph.  Have  you  found  in  me,  sir, 
Any  distaste  or  sign  of  discontent, 
For  want  of  what's  superfluous  ? 

Mat.  No,  Sophia ; 
Nor  shalt  thou  ever  have  cause  to  repent 
Thy  constant  course  in  goodness,  if  heaven  bless 
My  honest  undertakings.     'Tis  for  thee, 
That  I  turn  soldier,  and  put  forth,  dearest, 
Upon  this  sea  of  action  as  a  factor, 
To  trade  for  rich  materials  to  adorn 
Thy  noble  parts,  and  show  'em  in  full  lustre. 

1  blush  that  other  ladies,  less  in  beauty 
And  outward  form,  but,  in  the  harmony 

Of  the  soul's  ravishing  music,  the  same  age 

Not  to  be  named  with  thee,  should  so  outshine  thee 

In  jewels  and  variety  of  wardrobes  ; 

While  you,  to  whose  sweet  innocence  both  Indies 

Compar'd  are  of  no  value,  wanting  these, 

Pass  unregarded. 

Soph.  If  I  am  so  rich, 

Or  in  your  opinion  so,  why  should  you  borrow 

Additions  for  me  ? 

Mat.  Why  ?  I  should  be  censur'd 

Of  ignorance,  possessing  such  a  jewel, 

Above  all  prices,  if  I  forbear  to  give  it 

The  best  of  ornaments.     Therefore,  Sophia, 

In  a  few  words  know  my  pleasure,  and  obey  me  ; 

As  vou  have  ever  done.      To  your  discretion 


THE  PICTURE.  181 


I  leav,e  the  government  of  my  family, 
And  our  poor  fortunes,  and  from  these  command 
Obedience  to  you  as  to  myself: 
To  th'  utmost  of  what's  mine,  live  plentifully  : 
And,  ere  the  remnant  of  our  store  be  spent, 
With  my  good  sword  I  hope  I  shall  reap  for  you 
A  harvest  in  such  full  abundance,  as 
Shall  make  a  merry  winter. 
Soph.  Since  you  are  not 
To  be  diverted,  sir,  from  what  you  purpose, 
All  arguments' to  stay  you  here  are  useless. 
Go  when  you  please,  sir.     Eyes,  I  charge  you,  waste  not 
One  drop  of  sorrow  ;  look  you  hoard  all  up, 
Till  in  my  widow 'd  bed  I  call  upon  you  : 
But  then  be  sure  you  fail  not.     You  blest  angels, 
Guardians  of  human  life,  I  at  this  instant 
Forbear  t'  invoke  you  at  our  parting  ;  'twere 
To  personate  devotion.     My  soul 
Shall  go  along  with  you  ;  and  when  you  are 
Circled  with  death  and  horror,  seek  and  find  you  ; 
And  then  I  will  not  leave  a  saint  unsued  to 
For  your  protection.     To  tell  you  what 
I  will  do  in  your  absence,  would  show  poorly  ; 
Mv  actions  shall  speak  me.     '"Twere  to  doubt  you, 
To  beg  I  may  hear  from  you  where  you  are  ; 
You  cannot  live  obscure  :   nor  shall  one  post, 
Bv  night  or  day,  pass  unexamin'd  by  me. 
If  I  dwell  long  upon  your  lips,  consider 
After  this  feast  the  griping  fast  that  follows ; 
And  it  will  be  excusable;  pray,  turn  from  me: 
All  that  I  can  is  spoken. 

[The  good  sense,  rational  fondness,  and  chastised  feeling,  of  this  dialogue, 
make  it  more  valuable  than  many  of  those  scenes  in  which  this  writer  has 
attempted  a  deeper  passion  and  more  tr^jical  interest.  Massinger  had  not 
the  higher  requisites  of  his  art  in  anything  like  the  degree  in  which  they 
were  possessed  by  Ford,  Webster,  Tourneur,  Heywood,  and  others.  He 
never  shakes  or  disturbs  the  mind  with  grief.  He  is  read  with  composure 
and   placid  delight.      He   wrote    with    that  equability  of  all  the  passions, 


I'.XCUSll    DK.U1ATIC   POETS. 


which  made  his  English  style  the  purest  and  most  free  from  violent  metaphors 
and  harsh  constructions,  of  any  of  the  dramatists  who  were  his  contempora- 
ries.] 


THE   PARLIAMENT  OF  LOVE:    A  COMEDY.     BY  PHILIP 

MASSINGER. 

Cleremond  takes  an  oath  to  perform  his  mistress  Leonora's  pleasure.     She 
enjoins  him  to  kill  his  best  friend.     He  invites  Montrose  to  the  field, 
under  pretence  of  wanting  him  for  a  second:  then  shows,  that  he  must 
fight  with  him. 

Cler.  This  is  the  place. 

Mont.  An  even  piece  of  ground, 
Without  advantage  ;   but  be  jocund,  friend  : 
The  honor  to  have  enter'd  first  the  field, 
However  we  come  off,  is  ours. 

Cler.  I  need  not, 
So  well  I  am  acquainted  with  your  valor, 
To  dare,  in  a  good  cause,  as  much  as  man, 
Lend  you  encouragement ;  and  should  I  add, 
Your  power  to  do,  which  Fortune,  howe'er  blind, 
Hath  ever  seconded,  I  cannot  doubt 
But  victory  still  sits  upon  your  sword, 
And  must  not  now  forsake  you. 

Mont.  You  shall  see  me 
Come  boldly  up  ;  nor  will  I  shame  your  cause, 
By  parting  with  an  inch  of  ground  not  bought 
With  blood  on  my  part. 

Cler.  'Tis  not  to  be  question'd  : 
That  which  I  would  entreat  (and  pray  you  grant  it), 
Is,  that  you  would  forget  your  usual  softness, 
Your  foe  being  at  your  mercy  ;  it  hath  been 
A  custom  in  you,  which  I  dare  not  praise, 
Having  disarm'd  your  enemy  of  his  sword, 
To  tempt  your  fate,  by  yielding  it  again ; 
Then  run  a  second  hazard. 

Mont.  When  we  encounter 


THE  PICTURE.  183 


A  noble  foe,  we  cannot  be  too  noble. 

Cler.  That  I  confess  ;  but  he  that 's  now  to  oppose  you, 
I  know  for  an  arch  villain  ;  one  that  hath  lost 
All  feeling  of  humanity,  one  that  hates 
Goodness  in  others,  'cause  he  's  ill  himself; 
A  most  ungrateful  wretch  (the  name  's  too  gentle, 
All  attributes  of  wickedness  cannot  reach  him), 
Of  whom  to  have  deserved,  beyond  example, 
Or  precedent  of  friendship,  is  a  wrong 
Which  only  death  can  satisfy. 

Mont.  You  describe 
A  monster  to  me. 

Cler.  True,  Montrose,  he  is  so. 
Africk,  though  fertile  of  strange  prodigies, 
Never  produced  his  equal  ;   be  wise,  therefore, 
And  if  he  fall  into  your  hands,  dispatch  him  : 
Pity  to  him  is  cruelty.     The  sad  father, 
That  sees  his  son  stung  by  a  snake  to  death. 
May,  with  more  justice,  stay  his  vengeful  hand 
And  let  the  worm  escape,  than  you  vouchsafe  him 
A  minute  to  repent :  for  'tis  a  slave 
So  sold  to  hell  and  mischief,  that  a  traitor 
To  his  most  lawful  prince,  a  church-rebber, 
A  parricide,  who,  when  his  garners  are 
Cramm'd  with  the  purest  grain,  surfers  his  parents, 
Being  old,  and  weak,  to  starve  for  want  of  bread, 
Compared  to  him  are  innocent. 

Mont.  I  ne'er  heard 
Of  such  a  cursed  nature;   if  long-lived, 
He  would  infect  mankind  :   rest  you  assured, 
He  finds  from  me  small  courtesy, 

Cler.  And  expect 
As  little  from  him ;  blood  is  that  he  thirsts  for, 
Not  honorable  wounds. 

Mont.   I  would  I  had  him 
Within  my  sword's  length  ! 

Cler.  Have  thy  wish  :  Thou  hast ! 

[Cleremond  draws  his  sword. 


L8-1  ENGL1  5H   DR  \.\I  \TIC  POETS. 


Nay  draw  thy  sword  and  suddenly  ;  I  am 

That  monster,  temple-robber,  parricide, 

Ingrateful  wretch,  friend-hater,  or  what  else 

Makes  up  the  perfect  figure  of  the  devil, 

Should  he  appear  like  man.     Banish  amazement, 

And  call  thy  ablest  spirits  up  to  guard  thee 

From  him  that  !s  turn'd  a  fury.      I  am  made 

Her  minister,  whose  cruelty  hut  named 

Would  with  more  horror  strike  the  pale-cheek'd  stars, 

Than  all  those  dreadful  words  which  conjurors  use 

To  fright  their  dainn'd  familiars.     Look  not  on  me 

As  I  am  Cleremond ;   I  have  parted  with 

The  essence  that  was  his,  and  entertain'd 

The  soul  of  some  fierce  tigress,  or  a  wolf's 

New-hang'd  for  human  slaughter,  and  'tis  fit: 

I  could  not  else  be  an  apt  instrument 

To  bloody  Leonora. 

Mont.  To  my  knowledge 
I  never  wrong'd  her. 

Cler.  Yes,  in  being  a  friend 
To  me,  she  hated  my  best  friend,  her  malice 
Would  look  no  lower  : — and  for  being  such, 
By  her  commands,  Montrose,  I  am  to  kill  thee 
Oh,  that  thou  hadst,  like  others,  been  all  words, 
And  no  performance  !  or  that  thou  hadst  made 
Some  little  stop  in  thy  career  of  kindness ! 
Why  wouldst  thou,  to  confirm  the  name  of  friend. 
Snatch  at  this  fatal  office  of  a  second, 

Which  others  fled  from  ? 'Tis  in  vain  to  mourn  now, 

When  there  's  no  help!  and  therefore,  good  Montrose, 

Rouse  thy  most  manly  parts,  and  think  thou  stand'st  now, 

A  champion  for  more  than  king  or  country  ; 

Since  in  thy  fall,  goodness  itself  must  suffer. 

Remember  too,  the  baseness  of  the  wrong 

Offer'd  to  friendship  ;  let  it  edge  thy  sword, 

And  kill  compassion  in  thee  ;  and  forget  not 

I  will  take  all  advantages  :  and  so, 

Without  reply,  have  at  thee.  [They  fight,  Cleremond  falU. 


A  VERY  WOMAN.  185 


Mont.  See,  how  weak 
An  ill  cause  is !  you  are  already  fallen  : 
What  can  you  look  for  now  ? 

Cler.  Fool,  use  thy  fortune  : 
And  so  he  counsels  thee,  that,  if  we  had 
Changed  places,  instantly  would  have  cut  thy  throat, 
Or  digg'd  thy  heart  out. 

Mont.  In  requital  of 
That  savage  purpose,  I  must  pity  you  : 
Witness  these  tears,  not  tears  of  joy  for  conquest ; 
But  of  true  sorrow  for  your  misery. 
Live,  O  live,  Cleremond,  and,  like  a  man, 
Make  use  of  reason,  as  an  exorcist 
To  cast  this  devil  out,  that  does  abuse  you ; 
This  fiend  of  false  affection. 


A  VERY  WOMAN;    OR,   THE    PRINCE  OF  TARENT  :    A  TRAGI- 
COMEDY.    BY  PHILIP  MASSINGER. 

Don  John  Antonio,  Prince  of  Tarent,  in  the  disguise  of  a  slave,  recounts 
to  the  Lady  Mmira,  she  not  knowing  him  in  that  disguise,  the  story  of 
his  own  passion  for  her,  and  of  the  unworthy  treatment  which  he  found 
from  her. 

John.  Not  far  from  where  my  father  lives,  a  lady, 
A  neighbor  by,  blest  with  as  great  a  beauty 
As  Nature  durst  bestow  without  undoing, 
Dwelt,  and  most  happily,  as  I  thought  then, 
And  bless'd  the  house  a  thousand  times  she  dwelt  in. 
This  beautv,  in  the  blossom  of  my  youth, 
When  my  first  fire  knew  no  adulterate  incense, 
Nor  I  no  way  to  flatter  but  my  fondness, 
In  all  the  bravery  my  friends  could  show  me, 
In  all  the  faith  my  innocence  could  give  me, 
In  the  best  language  my  true  tongue  could  tell  me, 
And  all  the  broken  sighs  my  sick  heart  lent  me, 
I  sued,  and  serv'd.     Long  did  I  love  this  lady, 
Long  was  my  travail,  long  my  trade,  to  win  her : 


ENGLISH  DRAMATIC  POETS. 

With  all  tiic  duly  of  my  soul  I  scrv'd  her. 

Aim.   How  feelingly  he  speaks  !     And  she  loved  you  too  ? 
It  must   lir  so. 

John.  I  would  it  had,  dear  lady. 
This  story  had  heen  needless  ;  and  this  place, 
1  think,  unknown  to  me. 

Aim.  Were  your  bloods  equal  ? 

John.  Yes  ;  and,  I  thought,  our  hearts  too. 

Aim.   Then  she  must  love. 

John.  She  did  ;   but  never  me  :  she  could  not  love  me  ; 
She  would  not  love  ;  she  hated  ;  more,  she  scorn'd  me : 
And  in  so  poor  and  base  a  way  abused  me, 
For  all  my  services,  for  all  my  bounties, 
So  bold  neglects  flung  on  me 

Aim.  An  ill  woman  ! 
Belike  you  found  some  rival  in  your  love  then  ? 

John.  How  perfectly  she  points  me  to  my  story  !        [Aside. 
Madam,  I  did  ;  and  one  whose  pride  and  anger, 
111  manners,  and  worse  mem,  she  doated  on ; 
Doatcd,  to  my  undoing  and  my  ruin. 
And,  but  for  honor  to  your  sacred  beauty, 
And  reverence  to  the  noble  sex,  though  she  fall 
(As  she  must  fall,  that  durst  be  so  unnoble), 
I  should  say  something  unbeseeming  me. 
What  out  of  love,  and  worthy  love,  I  gave  her 
(Shame  to  her  most  unworthy  mind),  to  fools, 
To  girls,  and  fiddlers,  to  her  boys  she  flung, 
And  in  disdain  of  me. 
Last,  to  blot  me 

From  all  rememb'rance,  what  I  have  been  to  her, 
And  how,  how  honestly,  how  nobly  serv'd  her, 
'Twas  thought  she  set  her  gallant  to  dispatch  me. 
'"Tis  true,  he  quarrell'd,  without  place,  or  reason  ; 
We  fought,  I  kill'd  him ;  heaven's  strong  hand  was  with  rne  ; 
i'or  which  I  lost  my  country,  friends,  acquaintance, 
And  put  myself  to  sea,  where  a  pirate  took  me, 
And  sold  me  here. 


THE  UNNATURAL  COMBAT.  187 

THE    UNNATURAL    COMBAT  :   A  TRAGEDY.     BY  PHILIP  MAS- 
SINGER. 

Malefort  senior,  Admiral  of  Marseilles,  poisons  his  first  wife  to  make 
way  jor  a  second.  This  coming  to  the  knowledge  of  his  son,  Malefort 
junior,  he  challenges  his  father  to  fight  him.  This  unnatural  combat 
is  performed  before  the  Governor  and  the  Court  of  Marseilles.  The 
spectators  retiring  to  some  distance,  the  father  and  son  p>arley  before 
the  fight  commences. 

Malefort  senior.     Malefort  junior. 

Mai.  sen.   Now  we  are  alone,  sir ; 
And  thou  hast  liberty  to  unload  the  burden 
Which  tbou  groan'st  under.     Speak  thy  griefs. 

Mai.  jun.   I  shall,  sir  ; 
But  in  a  perplext  form  and  method,  which 
You  only  can  interpret :  would  you  had  not 
A  guilty  knowledge  in  your  bosom  of 
The  language  which  you  force  me  to  deliver, 
So  I  were  nothing  !     As  you  are  my  father, 
I  bend  my  knee,  and  uncompell'd  profess, 
My  life  and  all  that's  mine  to  be  your  gift, 
And  that  in  a  son's  duty  I  stand  bound 
To  lay  this  head  beneath  your  feet,  and  run 
All  desperate  hazards  for  your  ease  and  safety. 
But,  this  confess'd  on  my  part,  I  rise  up  ; 
And  not  as  with  a  father  (all  respect, 
Love,  fear,  and  reverence,  cast  off)  but  as 
A  wicked  man,  I  thus  expostulate  with  you. 
Why  have  you  done  that  which  I  dare  not  speak  ? 
And  in  the  action  chang'd  the  humble  shape 
Of  my  obedience  to  rebellious  rage 
And  insolent  pride  I  and  with  shut  eyes  constrain'd  me 
To  run  my  bark  of  honor  on  a  shelf, 
I  must  not  see,  nor,  if  I  saw  it,  shun  it  ? 
In  my  wrongs  nature  sutlers,  and  looks  backward  ; 
And  mankind  trembles  to  set    me  pursue 
What  beasts  would  fly  from.     For  when  I  advance 
This  sword,  as  I  must  do,  against  your  head, 


ENGLISH  DRAMATIC  POETS. 


Piety  will  weep,  and  filial  duty  mourn, 
To  see  their  altars,  which  you  built  up  in  me, 
In  a  moment  raz'd  and  ruin'd.     That  you  could 
(From  my  griev'd  soul  I  wish  it)  but  produce 
To  qualify,  not  excuse,  your  deed  of  horror, 
One  seeming  reason  :  that  I  might  fix  here, 
And  move  no  further  ! 

Mai.  sen.  Have  I  so  far  lost 
A  fathers  power,  that  I  must  give  account 
Of  my  actions  to  my  son  ?  or  must  I  plead 
As  a  fearful  prisoner  at  the  bar,  while  he 
That  owes  his  being  to  me  sits  as  judge 
To  censure  that,  which  only  by  myself 
Ought  to  be  question'd  ?  mountains  sooner  fall 
Beneath  their  valleys,  and  the  lofty  pine 
Pay  homage  to  the  bramble,  or  what  else  is 
Preposterous  in  nature,  ere  my  tongue 
In  one  short  syllable  yields  satisfaction 
To  any  doubt  of  thine ;  nay,  though  it  were 
A  certainty,  disdaining  argument : 
Since,  though  my  deeds  wore  hell's  black  livery, 
To  thee  they  should  appear  triumphant  robes, 
Set  off  with  glorious  honor  :  thou  being  bound 
To  see  witli  my  eyes,  and  to  hold  that  reason 
That  takes  or  birth  or  fashion  from  my  will. 

Mai.  jun.  This  sword  divides  that  slavish  knot. 

Mai.  sen.  It  cannot, 
It  cannot,  wretch ;  and  thou  but  remember 
From  whom  thou  hadst  this  spirit,  thou  dar'st  not  hope  it 
Who  train'd  thee  up  in  arms,  but  I  ?  who  taught  thee 
Men  were  men  only  when  they  durst  look  down 
With  scorn  on  death  and  danger,  and  contemn'd 
All  opposition,  till  plum'd  victory 
Had  made  her  constant  stand  upon  their  helmets  ? 
Under  my  shield  thou  hast  fought  as  securely 
As  the  young  eaglet,  covered  with  the  wings 
Of  her  fierce  dam,  learns  how  and  where  to  prey. 
All  that  is  manly  in  thee,  I  call  mine  ; 


VIRGIN   MARTYR.  189 


But  what  is  weak  and  womanish,  thine  own. 

And  what  I  gave  (since  thou  art  proud,  ungrateful, 

Presuming  to  contend  with  him,  to  whom 

Submission  is  due)  I  will  take  from  thee. 

Look  therefore  for  extremities,  and  expect  not 

I  will  correct  thee  as  a  son,  but  kill  thee 

As  a  serpent  swoln  with  poison  ;   who  surviving 

A  little  longer,  with  infectious  breath, 

Would  render  all  things  near  him,  like  itself, 

Contagious. 

Mai.  jun.  Thou  incensed  power, 
Awhile  forbear  thy  thunder  :  let  me  have 
No  aid  in  my  revenge,  if  from  the  grave 
Mv  mother 

Mai.  sen.   Thou  shalt  never  name  her  more 


{They  fight,  and  the  son  is  slain.) 
Mai.  sen.  Die  all  my  fears, 
And  waking  jealousies,  which  have  so  long 
Been  my  tormentors  ;  there  's  now  no  suspicion  : 
A  fact,  which  I  alone  am  conscious  of, 
Can  never  be  discovcr'd,  or  the  cause 
That  call'd  this  duel  on;  I  being  above 
All  perturbations  ;  nor  is  it  in 
The  power  of  fate  again  to  make  me  wretched. 


THE  VIRGIN  MARTYR:  A  TRAGEDY.    BY  PHILIP  MASSINGER 
AND  THOMAS   DECKER. 

Angelo,  an  angel,  attends  Dorothea,  as  a  page. 
Angelo.     Dorothea.     The  time,  midnight. 

Dor.   My  book  and  taper. 

Ang.  Here,  most  holy  mistress. 

Dor.   Thy  voice  sends  forth  such    nusic,  that  I  never 
Was  ravished  with  a  more  celestial  sound. 
Were  every  servant  in  the  world  like  thee, 
So  full  of  goodness,  angels  would  come  down 


1<J0  ENGLISH  DRAMATIC  POETS. 


To  dwell  with  us :  thy  name  is  Angelo, 

And  like  that  name  thou  art.     Get  thee  to  rest ; 

Thy  youth  with  too  much  watching  is  opprest. 

Ang.  No,  my  dear  lady.     I  could  weary  stars, 
And  force  the  wakeful  moon  to  lose  her  eyes, 
By  my  late  watching,  but  to  wait  on  you. 
When  at  your  prayers  you  kneel  before  the  altar, 
Methinks  I  'm  singing  with  some  quire  in  heaven, 
So  blest  I  hold  me  in  your  company. 
Therefore,  my  most  lov'd  mistress,  do  not  bid 
Your  boy,  so  serviceable,  to  get  hence  ; 
For  then  you  break  his  heart. 

Dor.  Be  nigh  me  still,  then. 
In  golden  letters  down  I  '11  set  that  day, 
Which  gave  thee  to  me.     Little  did  1  hope 
To  meet  such  worlds  of  comfort  in  thyself, 
This  little,  pretty  body,  when  I  coming 
Forth  of  the  temple,  heard  my  beggar-boy, 
My  sweet-fac'd,  godly  beggar-boy,  crave  an  alms, 
WThich  with  glad  hand  I  gave,  with  lucky  hand ; 
And  when  I  took  thee  home,  my  most  chaste  bosom 
Methought  was  fill'd  with  no  hot  wanton  fire, 
But  with  a  holy  flame,  mounting  since  higher, 
On  wings  of  cherubims,  than  it  did  before. 

Ang.  Proud  am  I  that  my  lady's  modest  eye 
So  likes  so  poor  a  servant. 

Dor.  I  have  offer'd 
Handfuls  of  gold  but  to  behold  thy  parents. 
I  would  leave  kingdoms,  were  I  queen  of  some, 
To  dwell  with  thy  good  father ;   for,  the  son 
Bewitching  me  so  deeply  with  his  presence, 
He  that  begot  him  must  do  't  ten  times  more. 
I  pray  thee,  my  sweet  boy,  show  me  thy  parents ; 
Be  not  ashamed. 

Ang.  I  am  not :  I  did  never 
Know  who  my  mother  was  ;  but,  by  yon  palace, 
Fill'd  with  bright  heav'nly  courtiers,  I  dare  assure  you, 
And  pawn  these  eyes  upon  it,  and  this  hand, 


FATAL  DOWRY.  191 


My  father  is  in  heav'n  ;  and,  pretty  mistress 
Ifvour  illustrious  hour-glass  spend  his  sand 
No  worse,  than  yet  it  doth,  upon  my  life, 
You  and  I  both  shall  meet  my  father  there, 
And  he  shall  bid  you  welcome. 
Dor.  A  bless'd  day  ! 

[This  scene  has  beauties  of  so  very  high  an  order  that,  with  all  my  respect 
for  Massinger,  I  do  not  think  he  had  poetical  enthusiasm  capable  of  fur- 
nishing them.  His  associate  Decker,  who  wrote  Old  Fortunatus,  had  poetry 
enough  for  anything.  The  very  impurities  which  obtrude  themselves  among 
the  sweet  pieties  of  this  play  (like  Satan  among  the  Sons  of  Heaven)  and 
which  the  brief  scope  of  my  plan  fortunately  enables  me  to  leave  out,  have 
a  strength  of  contrast,  a  raciness,  and  a  glow  in  them,  which  are  above 
Massinger.  They  set  off  the  religion  of  the  rest,  somehow  as  Caliban  serves 
*o  show  Miranda.] 


THE    FATAL   DOWRY;    A  TRAGEDY.      BY  PHILIP  MASSINGER 
AND  NATHANIEL  FIELD. 

The  Marshal  of  Burgundy  dies  in  prison  at  Dijon  for  debts  contracted 
by  him  for  the  service  of  the  state  in  the  wars.  His  dead  body  is  ar- 
rested and  denied  burial  by  his  creditors.  His  son,  young  Charalois, 
gives  up  himself  to  prison  to  redeem  his  father's  body,  'hat  it  may  have 
honorable  burial.  He  has  leave  from  his  prison  doors  to  view  the  cere- 
mony of  the  funeral,  but  to  go  no  further. 

Enter  three  gentlemen,  Pontalier,  Malotin,  and  Beaumont,  as 
spectators  of  the  funeral. 

Mai.   Tis  strange. 

Braum.  Methinks  so. 

Pont.   In  a  man  but  young, 
Yet  old  in  judgment ;  theoric  and  practic 
In  all  humanity  ;   and,  to  increase  the  wonder, 
Religious,  yet  a  soldier, — that  he  should 
Yield  his  free-living  youth  a  captive,  for 
The  freedom  of  his  aged  father's  corpse  ; 
And  ratlur  choose  to  want  life's  necessaries, 
Liberty,  hope  of  fortune,  than  it  should 
In  death  be  kept  from  christian  ceremony. 


192  ENGLISH  DRAMATIC  POETS. 

Mai.  Come,  'tis  a  golden  precedent  in  a  son, 
To  let  strong  nature  have  the  better  hand, 
In  such  a  case,  of  all  affected  reason. 
What  years  sit  on  this  Charalois  ? 

Beawn.  Twenty-eight. 
For  since  the  clock  did  strike  him  seventeen  old, 
Under  his  father's  wing  this  son  hath  fought, 
Serv'd  and  commanded,  and  so  aptly  both, 
That  sometimes  he  appeared  his  father's  father, 
And  never  less  than  his  son ;  the  old  man's  virtues 
So  recent  in  him,  as  the  world  may  swear 
Nought  but  a  fair  tree  could  such  fair  fruit  bear. 

Mai.  This  morning  is  the  funeral  ? 

Pont.  Certainly, 
And  from  this  prison, — 'twas  the  son's  request. 

[Charalois  appears  at  the  door  of  the  prison. 
That  his  dear  father  might  interment  have, 
See,  the  young  son  enter'd  a  lively  grave. 

Beaum.  They  come.     Observe  their  order. 

The  funeral  procession  enters.    Captain  and  soldiers,  mourners.   JRomont, 
friend  to  the  deceased.      Three   creditors  are  among  the  spectator* 
Charalois  speaks. 

Char.  How  like  a  silent  stream  shaded  with  night, 
And  gliding  softly  with  our  windy  sighs, 
Moves  the  whole  frame  of  this  solemnity  ! 
Tears,  sighs,  and  blacks,  filling  the  simile  ; 
Whilst  I,  the  only  murmur  in  this  grove 
Of  death,  thus  hollowly  break  forth  ! — vouchsafe 
To  stay  awhile.     Rest,  rest  in  peace,  dear  earth  ! 
Thou  that  broughtst  rest  to  their  unthankful  lives, 
Whose  cruelty  denied  thee  rest  in  death  ! 
Here  stands  thy  poor  executor,  thy  son, 
That  makes  his  life  prisoner  to  bail  thy  death ; 
Who  pladlier  puts  on  this  captivity, 
Than  virgins,  long  in  love,  their  wedding  weeds. 
Of  all  that  ever  thou  hast  done  good  to, 
These  only  have  good  memories  ;   for  they 


FATAL  DOWRY  193 


Remember  best,  forget  not  gratitude. 

I  thank  you  for  this  last  and  friendly  love, 

And  though  this  country,  like  a  viperous  mother, 

Not  only  hath  eat  up  ungratefully 

All  means  of  thee,  her  son,  but  last  thyself, 

Leaving  thy  heir  so  bare  and  indigent, 

He  cannot  raise  thee  a  poor  monument, 

Such  as  a  flatterer  or  an  usurer  hath  ; 

Thy  worth  in  every  honest  breast  builds  one, 

Making  their  friendly  hearts  thy  funeral  stone. 

Pont.  Sir! 

Char.  Peace  !  O  peace  !  This  scene  is  wholly  mine 
What !  weep  you,  soldiei's  ? — blanch  not. — Romont  weeps. — 
Ha  !  let  me  see  !  rav  miracle  is  eas'd  ; 
The  jailors  and  the  creditors  do  weep  ; 
E'en  they  that  make  us  weep,  do  weep  themselves. 
Be  these  thy  body's  balm  :  these,  and  thy  virtue, — 
Keep  thy  fame  ever  odoriferous, 
Whilst  the  great,  proud,  rich,  undeserving  man 
Alive  stinks  in  his  vices,  and,  being  vanish'd, 
The  golden  calf  that  was  an  idol,  deck'd 
With  marble  pillars,  jet  and  porphyry, 
Shall  quickly  both  in  bone  and  name  consume, 
Tho'  wrapt  in  lead,  spice,  cerecloth,  and  perfume. 

Creditor.  Sir ! 

Char.  What ! — away  for  shame, — you,  profane  rogues, 
Must  not  be  mingled  with  these  holy  relics : 
This  is  a  sacrifice — our  show'r  shall  crown 
His  sepulchre  with  olive,  myrrh,  and  bays, 
The  plants  of  peace,  of  sorrow,  victory  : 
Your  tears  would  spring  but  weeds. 

Rom.  Look,  look,  you  slaves  !  your  thankless  cruelty, 
And  savage  manners  of  unkind  Dijon, 
Exhaust  these  floods,  and  not  his  father's  death. 

Priest.   On. 

Char.  One  moment  more, 
But  to  bestow  a  tew  poor  legacies, 
All  I  have  left  in  my  dead  father's  right, 

PART    II  14 


104  ENGLISH  DRAMATIC  POETS. 


And  I  have  dune.      Captain,  wear  thou  these  spurs, 

Thai  yet  ne'er  made  his  horse  run  from  a  foe. 

Lieutenant,  thou  this  scarf;  and  may  it  tie 

Thy  valor  and  thy  honesty  together, 

For  so  it  did  in  him.     Ensign,  this  cuirass, 

Your  general's  necklace  once.     You,  gentle  bearers, 

Divide  this  purse  of  gold  :  this  other  strew 

Among  the  poor.     'Tis  all  I  have.     Romont, 

Wear  thou  this  medal  of  himself,  that  like 

A  hearty  oak  grew'st  close  to  this  tall  pine, 

E'en  in  the  wildest  wilderness  of  war, 

Whereon  foes  broke  their  swords,  and  tir'd  themselves 

Wounded  and  hack'd  ye  were,  but  never  fell'd. 

For  me,  my  portion  provide  in  heaven : 

My  root  is  earth 'd,  and  I,  a  desolate  branch, 

Left  scatter'd  in  the  highway  of  the  world, 

Trod  under  foot,  that  might  have  been  a  column 

Mainly  supporting  our  demolish'd  house. 

This*  would  I  wear  as  my  inheritance, — 

And  what  hope  can  arise  to  me  from  it, 

When  I  and  it  are  here  both  prisoners  ? 

Only  may  this,  if  ever  we  be  free, 

Keep  or  redeem  me  from  all  infamy. 

Jailor.  You  must  no  farther. — 
The  prison  limits  you,  and  the  creditors 
Exact  the  strictness. — 


THE  OLD  LAW:     A  COMEDY.     BY  PHILIP  MASSINGER, 
THOMAS  MIDDLETON,  AND  WILLIAM   ROWLEY. 

The  Duke  of  Epire  enacts  a  law,  that  all  men  who  have  reached  the  age 
of  fourscore,  shall  be  put  to  death,  as  being  adjudged  useless  to  the 
commonwealth.  Simonides,  the  bad,  and  Cleanthes,  the  good  son, 
are  differently  affected  by  the  promulgation  of  the  edict. 

Sim.  Cleanthes, 
Oh,  lad,  here's  a  spring  for  young  plants  to  flourish  ! 

*  His  father's  sword. 


OLD  LAW.  190 


The  old  trees  must  down,  kept  the  sun  from  us. 
We  shall  rise  now,  boy. 

Cle.   Whither,  sir,  I  pray  ? 
To  the  bleak  air  of  storms,  among  those  trees 
Which  we  had  shelter  from. 

Sim.  Yes,  from  our  growth, 
Our  sap  and  livelihood,  and  from  our  fruit. 
What  !   'tis  not  jubilee  with  thee  yet,  I  think  ; 
Thou  look'st  so  sad  on  't.     How  old  is  thy  father  ? 

Cle.  Jubilee  !  no,  indeed  ;  'tis  a  bad  year  with  me. 

Sim.  Prithee,  how  old's  thy  father?  then  I  can  tell  thee. 

Cle.  I  know  not  how  to  answer  you,  Simonides. 
He  is  too  old,  being  now  expos'd 
Unto  the  rigor  of  a  cruel  edict ; 
And  yet  not  old  enough  by  many  years, 
"Cause  I  'd  not  see  him  go  an  hour  before  me. 

Sim.  These  very  passions  I  speak  to  my  father. 

n  *  *  *         *         *         * 

Cle.  Why,  here's  a  villain, 
Able  to  corrupt  a  thousand  by  example. 
Does  the  kind  root  bleed  out  its  livelihood 
Id  parent  distribution  to  his  branches, 
Adorning  them  with  all  his  glorious  fruits, 
Proud  that  his  pride  is  seen  when  he's  unseen, 
And  must  not  gratitude  descend  again 
To  comfort  his  old  limbs  in  fruitless  winter  ? 

( '/>  anthes,  to  save  his  old  father,  Leonides,  from  the  operation  of  the  law, 
gives  out  that  he  is  dead,  celebrating  a  pretended  funeral,  to  make  it 
believed. 

Duke.     Courtiers.     Cleanthes,  as  following  his  father's  body 

to  the  grave. 

Duke.  Cleanthes? 

Court.  'Tis,  my  lord,  and  in  the  place 
Of  a  chief  mourner  too,  but  strangely  habited. 

Duke.  Yet  suitable  to  his  behavior,  mark  it ; 
He  comes  all  the  way  smiling,  do  you  observe  it  ? 
I  never  saw  a  corse  so  joyfully  follow'd. 


196  ENGLISH   DRAM  \TIC   POETS. 

Light  colors  and  light  cheeks — who  should  this  be  ? 


'Tis  a  thing  worth  resolving, — Cleanthes 

Cle.  O  my  lord  ! 

Duke.   He  laugh'd  outright  now. 
Was  ever  such  a  contrariety  seen 
In  natural  courses  yet,  nay,  profess'd  openly  ? 

Cle.   'Tis,  of  a  heavy  time,  the  joyfull'st  day 
That  ever  son  was  born  to. 

Duke.  How  can  that  be  ? 

Cle.  I  joy — to  make  it  plain — my  father's  dead. 

Duke.  Dead? 

Court.  Old  Leonides? 

Cle.  In  his  last  month  dead. 
He  beguil'd  cruel  law  the  sweetliest 
That  ever  age  was  blest  to. 
It  grieves  me  that  a  tear  should  fall  upon  't, 
Being  a  thing  so  joyful,  but  his  memory 
Will  work  it  out,  I  see ;  when  his  poor  heart 
Broke,  I  did  not  so  much,  but  leap'd  for  joy 
So  mountingly,  I  touch'd  the  stars,  methought. 
I  would  not  hear  of  blacks,  I  was  so  light, 
But  chose  a  color  orient,  like  my  mind  : 
For  blacks  are  often  such  dissembling  mourners, 
There  is  no  credit  giv'n  to  't,  it  has  lost 
All  reputation  by  false  sons  and  widows. 
Now  I  would  have  men  know  what  I  resemble, 
A  truth,  indeed  ;  'tis  joy  clad  like  a  joy, 
Which  is  more  honest  than  a  cunning  grief 
That's  only  fae'd  with  sables  for  a  show, 
But  gawdy-hearted.      When  I  saw  death  come 
So  ready  to  deceive  you,  sir,  forgive  me, 
I  could  not  choose  but  be  entirely  merry  ; 
And  yet  too,  see  now,  of  a  sudden, 
Naming  but  death,  I  show  myself  a  mortal, 
That's  never  constant  to  one  passion  long ; 
I  wonder  whence  that  tear  came,  when  I  smil'd 
In  the  production  on  "t  :  Sorrow's  a  thief, 
That  can,  when  joy  looks  on.  steal  forth  a  grief. 


OLD  LAW.  197 

But,  gracious  leave,  my  lord  ;  when  I've  perform'd 
My  last  poor  duty  to  my  father's  bones, 
I  shall  return  your  servant. 
Duke.     Well,  perform   it, 
The  law  is  satisfied  :  they  can  but  die. 

Cleanthes  conceals  Leonides  in  a  secret  apartment  within  a  wood,  where 
himself,  and  his  wife  Hippolita,  keep  watch  for  the  safety  of  the  old 
man.  This  coming  to  the  Duke's  knowledge,  he  repairs  to  the  wood 
and  makes  discovery  of  the  place  where  they  have  hid  Leonides. 

The  Wood. — Cleanthes  listening,  as  fearing  every  sound. 

Cle.  What's  that  ?     Oh,  nothing  but  the  whisp'ring  wind 
Breathes  thro'  yon  churlish  hawthorn,  that  grew  rude 
As  if  it  chid  the  gentle  breath  that  kiss'd  it. 
1  cannot  be  too  circumspect,  too  careful, 
For  in  these  woods  lies  hid  all  my  life's  treasure, 
Which  is  too  much  ever  to  fear  to  lose, 
Though  it  be  never  lost;  and  if  our  watchfulness 
Ought  to  be  wise  and  serious  'gainst  a  thief 
That  comes  to  steal  our  goods,  things  all  without  us, 
That  prove  vexation  often  more  than  comfort, 
How  mighty  ought  our  providence  to  be 
To  prevent  those,  if  any  such  there  were, 
That  come  to  rob  our  bosom  of  our  joys, 
That  only  make  poor  man  delight  to  live ! 
Pshaw,  I  "m  too  fearful — fie,  fie,  who  can  hurt  me  ? 
But  'tis  a  general  cowardice,  that  shakes 
The  nerves  of  confidence  ;  he  that  hides  treasure, 
Imagines  every  one  thinks  of  that  place, 
When  'tis  a  thing  least  minded  ;   nay,  let  him  change 
The  place  continually,  where'er  it  keeps, 
There  will  the  fear  keep  still.     Yonder  's  the  storehouse 
Of  all  my  comfort  now — and,  see,  it  sends  forth 

Hippolita  enters. 

A  dear  one  to  me.     Precious  chief  of  women  ! 
How  does  the  good  old  soul  ?  has  he  fed  well  ? 

Hip.   Beshrew  me,  sir.  ho  mado  the  heartiest  meal  to-day, 


l-.fS  ENGLISH  DRAMATIC  POETS 

Much  good  may  t  do  his  health. 

Cle.  A  blessing  on  thee, 
Botli  for  thy  news  and  wish. 

Hip.  His  stomach,  sir, 
Is  better'd  wond'rously,  since  his  concealment. 

Cle.  Ileav'n  has  a  blessed  work  in  't.     Come,  we  're  safe  here. 
I  prithee,  call  him  forth,  the  air  is  much  wholesomer. 

Hip.  Father. 

Leonides  comes  forth. 

Leon.  How  sweetly  sounds  the  voice  of  a  good  woman  ! 
It  is  so  seldom  heard,  that,  when  it  speaks, 
It  ravishes  all  senses.     Lists  of  honor  ! 
1  've  a  joy  weeps  to  see  you,  'tis  so  full, 
So  fairly  fruitful. 

Cle.  I  hope  to  see  you  often,  and  return 
Loaden  with  blessing,  still  to  pour  on  some. 
I  find  them  all  in  my  contented  peace, 
And  lose  not  one  in  thousands,  they  're  dispers'd 
So  gloriously,  I  know  not  which  are  brightest  ; 
I  find  them,  as  angels  are  found,  by  legions. 

A  horn  is  heard. 
Ha!— 

Leon.  What  was  't  disturb'd  my  joy  ? 

Cle.  Did  you  not  hear, 
As  afar  off  ? 

Hip.  What,  my  excellent  consort  ? 

Cle.  Nor  you 

Hip.  I  heard  a 


Cle.  Hark  acain- 


Leon.  Bless  my  joy, 
What  ails  it  on  a  sudden  ? 

Cle.  Now  since lately 

Leon.  'Tis  nothing  but  a  symptom  of  thy  care,  man. 
Cle.  Alas,  you  do  not  hear  well. 
Leon.  What  was  't,  daughter  ? 
Hip.  I  heard  a  sound  twice. 
Cle,  Hark  !  louder  and  nearer. 


OLD    I    \\V.  199 


In,  for  the  precious  good  of  virtue,  quick,  sir. 
Louder  and  nearer  yet;  at  hand,  at  ham!  ; 
A  hunting  here  !  'tis  strange  !  I  never  knew 
Game  follow'd  in  these  woods  before.  [Leonides  goes  in. 

Hip.  Now  let  them  come,  and  spare  not. 

Enter  Duke,  Courtiers,  Attendants,  as  if  hunting. 

Cle.  Ha  !  'tis is  't  not  the  Duke  ? look  sparingly. 

Hip.   'Tis  he,  but  what  of  that  ?  alas  !  take  heed,  sir  ; 
Your  care  will  overthrow  us. 

Cle.  Come,  it  shall  not. 
Let  ;s  set  a  pleasant  face  upon  our  fears, 
Though  our  hearts  shake  with  horror.     Ha  !  ha  !  ha  ! 

Duke.  Hark! 

Cle.  Prithee,  proceed  ; 
I  'm  taken  with  these  light  things  infinitely, 
Since  the  old  man's  decease. — Ha  !  ha  !  ha  ! 

Duke.  Why,  how  should  I  believe  this  ?     Look,  he  's  merry, 
\  i  if  he  had  no  such  charge.     One  with  that  care 
Could  never  be  so  still  ;  he  holds  his  temper, 
And  'tis  the  same  still  ;  with  no  difference, 
He  brought  his  father's  corpse  to  the  grave  with, 
lie  laugh'd  thus  then,  you  know. 

Court.  Aye,  he  may  laugh,  my  lord  ; 
That  shows  but  how  he  glories  in  his  cunning ; 
And.  perhaps,  done  more  to  advance  his  wit, 
Than  to  express  affection  to  his  father, 
That  only  he  has  over-reach'd  the  law. 

Duke.   If  a  contempt  can  be  so  neatly  carried, 

It  gives  me  cause  of  wonder. 

Cleanthes 

Cle.  My  lov'd  lord— 

Duke.  Not  raov'd  a  whit ! 

Constant  to  lightning  still  ! 'tis  strange  to  meet  you 

Upon  a  ground  so  unfrequented,  sir : 

This  docs  not  fit  your  passion  ;  you  are  for  mirth, 

Or  I  mistake  you  much. 

Cle.  But  finding  it 


JOO  ENGLISH   l»l!  \M.\TIC  POETS. 


Grow  to  a  noted  imperfection  in  me 

(For  anything  too  much  is  vicious), 

I  come  to  these  disconsolate  walks  of  purpose 

Only  to  dull  and  take  away  the  edge  on  't. 

I  ever  had  a  greater  zeal  to  sadness, 

A  natural  propension,  I  confess,  my  lord, 

Before  that  chearful  accident  fell  out, — 

If  I  may  call  a  father's  funeral  chearful, 

Without  wrong  done  to  duty  or  my  love. 

Duke.  It  seems  then  you  take  pleasure  in  these  walks,  sir  ? 

Cle.  Contemplative  content  I  do,  my  lord  : 
They  bring  into  my  mind  oft  meditations 
So  sweetly  precious,  that  in  the  parting 
I  find  a  shower  of  grace  upon  my  cheeks, 
They  take  their  leave  so  feelingly. 

Duke.  So,  sir 

Cle.  Which  is  a  kind  of  grave  delight,  my  lord. 

Duke.  And  I  've  small  cause,  Cleanthes.  to  afford  you 
The  least  delight  that  has  a  name. 

C/e.  My  lord 

Dakc.  In  your  excess  of  joy  you  have  express'd 
Your  rancor  and  contempt  against  my  law  : 
Your  smiles  deserve  fining  ;   you  have  profess'd 
!  lerision  openly  ev'n  to  my  face, 
Which  might  be  death,  a  little  more  incensed. 
You  do  not  come  for  any  freedom  here, 
But  for  a  project  of  your  own  ; 
But  all  that's  known  to  be  contentful  to  thee, 
Shall  in  the  use  prove  deadly.     Your  life  's  mine. 
If  ever  thy  presumption  do  but  lead  thee 

Into  these  walks  again aye,  or  that  woman 

I  '11  have  them  watch 'd  a  purpose. 

1st  Court.    Now,  now,  his  color  ebbs  and  flows. 

2d  Court.   Mark  hers  too. 

Hip.   Oh  !  who  shall  bring  food  to  the  poor  old  man  now  ? 
Speak  somewhat,  good  sir.  or  we  are  lost  for  ever. 

[Apart  to  Cleanthes. 

Cle.   Oh  !  you  did  wondrous  ill  to  call  me  a^ain. 


CH  U'.OT.  201 


There  are  not  words  to  help  us.     If  I  entreat, 
'Tis  found  ;  that  will  betray  us  worse  than  silence. 
Prithee,  let  heaven  alone,  and  let's  say  nothing. 

[Apart  to  Hippolita. 

1st  Court.  You  have  struck  them  dumb,  my  lord. 

2d  Court.   Look  how  guilt  looks  ! 

Cle.  He  is  safe  still,  is  he  not  ?     \ 

Hip.   Oh  !   you  do  ill  to  doubt  it.  \  Apart. 

Cle.  Thou  art  all  goodness.  ) 

2d  Court.  Now  does  your  grace  believe  ? 

Duke.   'Tis  too  apparent. 
Search,  make  a  speedy  search  ;  for  the  imposture 
Cannot  be  far  off,  bv  the  fear  it  sends. 

Cle.  Ha! 

2d  Court.  He  has  the  lapwing's  cunning,  I  'm  afraid,  my  lord, 
That  cries  most  when  she  is  farthest  from  the  nest. 

Cle.  Oh  !  we  are  betrayed. 

[There  is  an  exquisiteness  of  moral  sensibility,  making  one  to  gush  out 
tears  of  delight,  and  a  poetical  strangeness  in  all  the  improbable  circum- 
es  of  this  wild  play,  which  are  unlike  anything  in  the  dramas  which 
Massinger  wrote  alone.  The  pathos  is  of  a  subtler  edge.  Middleton  and 
Rowley,  who  assisted  in  this  play,  had  both  of  them  finer  geniuses  than 
their  associate.] 


THE   TRAGEDY    OF   PHILIP    CHABOT,  ADMIRAL   OF  FRANCE. 
BY  GEORGE  CHAPMAN,  AND  JAMES  SHIRLEY. 

The  Admiral  is  accused  of  treason,  a  criminal  process  is  instituted 
against  Mm.  ami  liis  faithful  servant  Mlegre  is  put  on  the  rack  to  make 
him  discover :  his  innocence  is  at  length  established  by  the  confession  of 
his  enemies  ;  but  the  disgrace  of  having  been  suspected  for  a  traitor 
In/  his  royal  Master,  sinks  so  dt  ep  into  him,  that  he  falls  into  a  mortal 
sickness. 

Admiral.     Allegiil.  supported  between  two. 

Adm.   Welcome   my  injured  servant  :  what  a  misery 
Have  they  made  on  thee! 

Al.   Though  some  change  appear 
Upon  my  body,  whose  severe  affliction 
Hath  brought  it  thus  to  be  sustain'd  by  others. 


202  ENGLISH  DRAMATIC  POETS. 


My  heart  is  still  the  same  in  faith  to  you, 
Not  broken  with  their  rage. 

Adm.  Alas  poor  man. 
Were  all  my  joys  essential,  and  so  mighty, 
As  the  affected  world  believes  I  taste, 
This  object  were  enough  t'  unsweeten  all. 
Though,  in  thy  absence,  I  had  suffering, 
And  felt  within  me  a  strong  sympathy, 
While  for  my  sake  their  cruelty  did  vex 
And  fright  thy  nerves  with  horror  of  thy  sense, 
Yet  in  this  spectacle  I  apprehend 
More  grief,  than  all  my  imagination 
Could  let  before  into  me.     Didst  not  curse  me 
Upon  the  torture  ? 

Al.  Good  my  lord,  let  not 
That  thought  of  what  1  suffer'd  dwell  upon 
Your  memory  ;  they  could  not  punish  more 
Than  what  my  duty  did  oblige  to  bear 
For  you  and  justice  :  but  there's  something  in 
Your  looks  presents  more  fear,  than  all  the  malice 
Of  my  tormentors  could  affect  my  soul  with. 
That  paleness,  and  the  other  forms  you  wear, 
Would  well  become  a  guilty  admiral,  one 
Lost  to  his  hopes  and  honor,  not  the  man 
Upon  whose  life  the  fury  of  injustice, 
Arm'd  with  fierce  lightning  and  the  power  of  thunder, 
Can  make  no  breach.     .[  was  not  rack'd  till  now. 
There's  more  death  in  that  falling  eye,  than  all 
Rasre  ever  vet  brought  forth.     What  accident,  sir,  can  blast, 
Can  be  so  black  and  fatal,  to  distract 
The  calm,  the  triumph,  that  should  sit  upon 
Your  noble  brow  :  misfortune  could  have  no 
Time  to  conspire  with  fate,  since  you  were  rescued 
By  the  great  arm  of  Providence  ;  nor  can 
Those  garlands,  that  now  grow  about  your  forehead, 
With  all  the  poison  of  the  world  be  blasted. 

Adm.   Allegre,  thou  dost  bear  thy  wounds  upon  thee 
In  wide  and  spacious  characters,  but  in 


CHABOT.  203 


The  volume  of  my  sadness  thou  dost  want 

An  eye  to  read.     An  open  force  hath  torn 

Thy  manly  sinews,  which  some  time  may  cure. 

The  engine  is  not  seen  that  wounds  thy  master; 

Past  all  the  remedy  of  art,  or  time, 

The  (latteries  of  court,  of  fame,  or  honors. 

Thus  in  the  summer  a  tall  flourishing  tree, 

Transplanted  by  strong  hand,  with  all  her  leaves 

And  blooming  pride  upon  her,  makes  a  show 

Of  spring,  tempting  the  eye  with  wanton  blossoms ; 

But  not  the  sun  with  all  her  amorous  smiles, 

The  dews  of  morning,  or  the  tears  of  night, 

Can  root  her  fibres  in  the  earth  again  ; 

Or  make  her  bosom  kind,  to  growth  and  bearing  : 

But  the  tree  withers  ;  and  those  very  beams, 

That  once  were  natural  warmth  to  her  soft  verdure, 

Dry  up  her  sap,  and  shoot  a  fever  through 

The  bark  and  rind,  till  she  becomes  a  burden 

To  that  which  gave  her  life  :  so  Chabot,  Chabot 

Al.   Wander  in  apprehension  !  I  must 
Suspect  your  health  indeed. 

Adm.  No,  no,  thou  shalt  not 
Be  troubled  :  I  but  stirr'd  thee  with  a  moral, 
That's  empty  ;   contains  nothing.     I  am  well  : 
See,  I  can  walk ;  poor  man,  thou  hast  not  strength  yet. 

The  father  of  the  Admiral  makes  known  the  condition  his  son  is  in  to  the 

king. 

Father.     King. 

King.  Say,  how  is  my  admiral  ? 
The  truth  upon  thy  life. 

Fath.  To  secure  his,  I  would  you  had. 

King.  Ha  !  who  durst  oppose  him  ? 

Fath.   One  that  hath  power  enough,  hath  practis'd  on  him, 
And  made  his  great  heart  stoop. 

King.  I  will  revenge  it 
With  crushing,  crushing  that  rebellious  power 
To  nothing.     Name  him. 


204  ENGLISH   DRAM  \TIC  POETS. 


luilh.   He  \\as  ln's  friend. 

King.  What  mischief  hath  engender'd 
New  storms  ? 

Fa/fc.   'Tis  the  old  tempest. 

King.  Did  not  we 
Appease  all  horrors  that  look'd  wild  upon  him? 

Fath.   You  drest  his  Mounds,  1  must  confess,  but  made 
No  cure  ;   they  bleed  afresh  :  pardon  me,  sir  ; 
Although  your  conscience  have  closed  too  soon, 
He  is  in  danger,  and  doth  want  new  surgery  : 
Though  he  be  right  in  fame,  and  your  opinion, 
He  thinks  you  were  unkind. 

King.  Alas,  poor  Chabot : 
Doth  that  afflict  him  ? 

Fath.  So  much,  though  he  strive 
With  most  resolv'd  and  adamantine  nerves, 
As  ever  human  fire  in  flesh  and  blood 
Forg'd  for  example,  to  bear  all  ;  so  killing 
The  arrows  that  you  shot  were  (still,  your  pardon) 
No  centaur's  blood  could  rankle  so. 

King.  If  this 
Be  all,  I'll  cure  him.     Kings  retain 
More  balsam  in  their  soul,  than  hurt  in  anger. 

Fath.  Far  short,  sir ;  with  one  breath  they  uncreate  : 
And  kings,  with  only  words,  more  wounds  can  make 
Than  all  their  kingdom  made  in  balm  can  heal. 
'Tis  dangerous  to  play  too  wild  a  descant 
On  numerous  virtue  ;  though  it  become  princes 
To  assure  their  adventures  made  in  everything. 
Goodness,  confin'd  within  poor  flesh  and  blood, 
Hath  but  a  queazy  and  still  sickly  state  ; 
A  musical  hand  should  only  play  on  her, 
Fluent  as  air,  yet  every  touch  command. 

King.  No  more  : 
Commend  us  to  the  admiral,  and  say 
The  king  will  visit  him,  and  bring  health. 

Fath.  I  will  not  doubt  that  blessing,  and  shall  move 
Nimblv  with  this  command. 


CHABOT  205 

The  King  visits  the  Admiral. 

King.     Admiral.     His  wife,  and  father. 

King.  No  ceremonial  knees  : 
Give  me  thy  heart,  my  dear,  my  honest  Chabot  ; 
And  yet  in  vain  I  challenge  that ;   'tis  here 
Already  in  my  own,  and  shall  be  cherish 'd 
With  care  of  my  best  life  :  no  violence 
Shall  ravish  it  from  my  possession  ; 
Not  those  distempers  that  infirm  my  blood 
And  spirits,  shall  betray  it  to  a  fear  ; 
When  time  and  nature  join  to  dispossess 
My  body  of  a  cold  and  languishing  breath  ; 
No  stroke  in  all  my  arteries,  but  silence 
In  every  faculty ;  yet  dissect  me  then, 
And  in  my  heart  the  world  shall  read  thee  living  ; 
And.  by  the  virtue  of  thy  name  writ  there, 
That  part  of  me  shall  never  putrify, 
When  I  am  lost  in  all  my  other  dust. 

Adm.  You  too  much  honor  your  poor  servant,  sir  ; 
My  heart  despairs  so  rich  a  monument, 
But  when  it  dies — 

King.  I  wo'  not  hear  a  sound 
Of  anything  that  trenched  upon  death. 
He  speaks  the  funeral  of  my  crown,  that  prophesies 
So  unkind  a  fate  :  we'll  live  and  die  together. 
And  by  that  duty,  which  hath  taught  you  hitherto 
All  loyal  and  just  services,  I  charge  thee, 
Preserve  thy  heart  for  me,  and  thy  reward, 
Which  now  shall  crown  thy  merits. 

Adm.  I  have  found 
A  glorious  harvest  in  your  favor,  sir; 
And  by  this  overflow  of  royal  grace, 
All  my  deserts  are  shadows  and  fly  from  me  : 
I  have  not  in  the  wealth  of  my  desires 
Enough  to  pay  you  now 

King.  Express  it  in  some  joy  then. 

Adm.   I  will  strive 


206  ENGLISH  DRAMATIC  POETS. 


To  show  that  pious  gratitude  to  you,  but 

King.  But  what  ? 

Adm.  My  frame  hath  lately,  sir,  been  ta'en  a  pieces, 
And  but  now  put  together  ;  the  least  force 
Of  mirth  will  shake  and  unjoint  all  my  reason. 
Your  patience,  royal  sir. 

King.   I  '11  have  no  patience, 
If  thou  forget  the  courage  of  a  man. 

Adm.  My  strength  would  flatter  me. 

King.  Physicians, 
Now  I  begin  to  fear  his  apprehension. 
Why  how  is  Chabot's  spirit  fall'n  ? 

Adm.   Who  would  not  wish  to  live  to  serve  your  goodness  ? 
Stand  from  me.     You  betray  me  with  your  fears. 
The  plummets  may  fall  off  that  hang  upon 
My  heart,  they  were  but  thoughts  at  first ;  or  if 
They  weigh  me  down  to  death,  let  not  my  eyes 
Close  with  another  object  than  the  king. 

King.  In  a  prince 
What  a  swift  executioner  is  a  frown, 
Especially  of  great  and  noble  souls  ! 
How  is  it  with  my  Philip  ? 

Adm.  I  must  beg 
One  other  boon. 

King.  Upon  condition 
My  Chabot  will  collect  his  scatter'd  spirits. 
And  be  himself  again,  he  shall  divide 
My  kingdom  with  me. 

Adm.  I  observe 
A  fierce  and  killing  wrath  engender'd  in  you ; 
For  my  sake,  as  you  wish  me  strength  to  serve  you, 
Forgive  your  chancellor  ;*  let  not  the  story 
Of  Philip  Chabot,  read  hereafter,  draw 
A  tear  from  any  family  ;  I  beseech 
Your  royal  mercy  on  his  life,  and  free 
Remission  of  all  seizure  upon  his  state. 

*  Chabot's  accuser 


MAID'S  REVENGE.  207 


I  have  no  comfort  else. 

King.   Endeavor 
Rut  thy  own  health  ;  and  pronounce  general  pardon 
To  all  through  France. 

Adm.  Sir,  I  must  kneel  to  thank  you  ; 
It  is  not  seal'd  else.     Your  blest  hand  :  live  happy, 
May  all  your  trust  have  no  less  faith  than  Chabot. 
Oh!  {Dies. 

Wife.  His  heart  is  broken. 

Father.   And  kneeling,  sir  ; 
As  his  ambition  were  in  death  to  show 
The  truth  of  his  obedience. 


THE   MAID'S   REVENGE;  A  TRAGEDY.     BY  JAMES   SHIRLEY.* 

Sebastiano  invites  Antonio  to  Jlvero  Castle. 
Sebastiano.     Antonio. 

Seb.  The  noble  courtesies  I  have  receiv'd 
At  Lisbon,  worthy  friend,  so  much  engage  me, 
Tbat  I  must  die  indebted  to  your  worth, 
Unless  you  mean  to  accept  what  I  have  studied, 
Although  but  partly,  to  discharge  the  sum 
Due  to  your  honor'd  love. 

Ant.  How  now,  Sebastiano,  will  you  forfeit 
The  name  of  friend,  then  ?  I  did  hope  our  love 
Had  out-grown  compliment. 

Seb.  I  spake  my  thoughts  ; 
My  tongue  and  heart  are  relatives;   I  think 
I  have  deserv'd  no  base  opinion  from  you  ; 
1  wish  not  only  to  perpetuate 

Our  friendship,  but  t'  exchange  that  common  name 
Of  friend  for — 

*  Shirley  claims  a  place  amongst  the  worthies  of  this  period,  not  so  much 
for  any  transcendent  genius  in  himself,  as  that  he  was  the  lust  of  a  great 
race,  nil  of  whom  spoke  nearly  the  same  language,  and  had  a  set  of  moral 
feelings  and  notions  in  common.  A  new  language  and  quite  a  new  turn 
cf  trajic  and  comic  interest  came  in  with  the  Restoratii  it 


208  ENGLISH   DRAMATIC  POETS. 

Ant.  What  ?  take  heed,  do  not  profane  : 
Wouldst  thou  be  more  than  friend  ?  it  is  a  name 
Virtue  can  only  answer  to  :  couldst  thou 
I  nite  into  one  all  goodness  whatsoe'er 
Mortality  can  boast  of,  thou  shalt  find 
The  circle  narrow-bounded  to  contain 
This  swelling  treasure  ;  every  good  admits 
Degrees,  but  this  being  so  good,  it  cannot : 
For  he  's  no  friend  is  not  superlative. 
Indulgent  parents,  brethren,  kindred,  tied 
By  the  natural  flow  of  blood,  alliances, 
And  what  you  can  imagine,  is  too  light 
To  weigh  with  name  of  friend  :  they  execute 
At  best  but  what  a  nature  prompts  them  to  ; 
Aie  often  less  than  friends,  when  they  remain 
Our  kinsmen  still  :  but  friend  is  never  lost. 

Seb.  Nay  then,  Antonio,  you  mistake  ;  I  mean  not 
To  leave  off  friend,  which,  with  another  title, 
Would  not  be  lost.     Come,  then,  I  '11  tell  you,  sir ; 
1  would  be  friend  and  brother  :  thus  our  friendship 
Shall,  like  a  diamond  set  in  gold,  not  lose 
His  sparkling,  but  show  fairer  :  I  have  a  pair 
Of  sisters,  which  I  would  commend,  but  that 
I  might  seem  partial,  their  birth  and  fortunes 
Deserving  noble  love  ;   if  thou  be'st  free 
From  other  fair  engagement,  I  would  be  proud 
To  sneak  them  worthy  :  come,  shalt  go  and  see  them. 
I  would  not  beg  them  suitors  ;  fame  hath  spread 
Through  Portugal  their  persons,  and  drawn  to  Avero 
Many  affectionate  gallants. 

Ant.  Catalina  and  Berinthia. 

Seb.  The  same. 

Ant.  Report  speaks  loud  their  beauties,  and  no  less 
Virtue  in  either.     Well,  I  see  you  strive 
To  leave  no  merit  where  you  mean  to  honor. 
I  cannot  otherwise  escape  the  censure 
Of  one  ungrateful,  but  by  waiting  on  you 
Home  to  Avero. 


MAID'S  REVENGE.  2t<3 


Seb.  You  shall  honor  me, 
And  glad  my  noble  father,  to  whom  you  are 
No  stranger  ;  your  own  worth  before  hath  been 
Sufficient  preparation. 

Ant.  Ha! 
1  have  not  so  much  choice,  Sebastiano  : 
But  if  one  sister  of  Antonio's 
May  have  a  commendation  to  your  thoughts 
(I  will  not  spend  much  art  in  praising  her, 
Her  virtue  speak  itself)  I  shall  be  happy  ; 
And  be  confirm 'd  your  brother,  though  I  miss 
Acceptance  at  Avero. 

Seb.  Still  you  out-do  me.     I  could  never  wish 
My  service  better  placed.     At  opportunity 
I  '11  visit  you  at  Elvas  ;  i'  the  mean  time 
Let's  haste  to  Avero,  where  with  you  I  '11  bring 
My  double  welcome,  and  not  fail  to  second 
Any  design. 

Ant.  You  shall  teach  me  a  lesson 
Against  we  meet  at  Elvas  castle,  sir. 

Sebastiano's  father  welcomes  Antonio  to  Avero  Castle. 

Villarezo.     Catalina.     Berinthia.      Sebastiano.     Antonio. 

Vil.  Old  Gaspar's  house  is  honor'd  by  such  guests. 
Now,  by  the  tomb  of  my  progenitors, 
I  envied  that  your  fame  should  visit  me 
So  oft  without  your  person.     Sebastiano 
Hath  been  long  happy  in  your  noble  friendship, 
Ami  cannot  but  improve  himself  in  virtues, 
That  lives  so  near  yoar  love. — You  shall  dishonor  me, 
Unless  you  think  yourself  as  welcome  here 
As  at  your  Elvas  castle.     Villarezo 
Was  once  as  you  are,  sprightly  ;  and  though  I  say  it, 
Maintain'd  my  father's  reputation, 
And  honor  of  our  house,  with  actions 
Worthy  our  name  and  family  :  but  now 
Time  hath  let  fall  cold  snow  upon  my  hairs, 
Plough'd  on  my  brows  the  furrows  of  his  anger, 

PART     II.  L5 


211'  ENGLISH  DRAMATIC  POETS. 


Distljrnish'd  me  of  active  blood,  and  wrapt  me 
Half  in  my  sear-cloth,  yet  I  have  a  mind 
That  bids  me  honor  virtue,  where  I  see  it 
Bud  forth  and  spring  so  hopefully. 

Ant.  You  speak  all  nobleness,  and  encourage  me 
To  spend  the  greenness  of  my  rising  years 
So  to  th'  advantage,  that  at  last  I  may 
Be  old  like  you. 

Vil.  Daughters,  speak  his  welcome. — 

Antonio  loves  and  is  beloved  by  Berinthia,  the  younger  sister.  Catalina 
the  elder  is  jealous,  and  plots  to  take  off  her  sister  by  poison.  Antonio 
rescues  Berinthia  from  the  vindictive  jealousy  of  her  sister,  and  carries 
her  off  to  Elvas  Castle ;  where  his  sister  Castabella  and  his  cousin 
J'i/landras  welcome  her. 

Antonio.      Berinthia.     Castabella.     Villandras.      Sforz-s 

a  domestic. 

Ant.  The  welcom'st  guest  that  ever  Elvas  had. 

Sister — Villandras you  're  not  sensible 

What  treasure  you  possess.     I  have  no  loves 
I  would  not  here  divide. 

Cast.  Indeed,  madam, 
You  are  as  welcome  here  as  e'er  my  mother  was. 

foil.  And  you  are  here  as  safe, 
As  if  you  had  an  army  for  your  guard. 
Nor  think  my  noble  cousin  meaneth  you 
Any  dishonor  here. 

Ant.  Dishonor  !  'tis  a  language 
I  never  understood  yet.     Throw  off  your  fears, 
Berinthia.  you  're  in  the  power  of  him, 
That  dares  not  think  the  least  dishonor  to  you. — 
Come,  be  not  sad. 

Cast.  Put  on  fresh  blood ;  you  are  not  chearful,  how  do  you  ? 

Ber.  I  know  not  how,  nor  what  to  answer  you  ; 
Your  loves  I  cannot  be  ungrateful  to ; 
You  're  my  best  friends  1  think,  but  yet  I  know  not 
With  what  consent  you  brought  my  body  hither, 

Ant.  Can  you  be  ignorant  what  plot  was  laid 
To  take  vour  fair  life  from  vou? 


MAID'S  REVENGE.  211 


Ber.  If  all  be  not  a  dream,  I  do  remember 
Your  servant  Diego  told  me  wonders,  and 
I  owe  you  for  my  preservation,  but — 

Cast.  It  is  your  happiness  you  have  escaped 
The  malice  of  your  sister. 

Vill.  And  it  is  worth 
A  noble  gratitude  to  have  been  quit 
By  such  an  honorer  as  Antonio  is 
Of  fair  Berinthia. 

Ber.  Oh,  but  my  father ;  under  whose  displeasure 
I  ever  sink. 

Ant.  You  are  secure — 

Ber.  As  the  poor  deer  that  being  pursued,  for  safety 
Gets  up  a  rock  that  overhangs  the  sea, 
Where  all  that  she  can  see  is  her  destruction ; 
Before,  the  waves ;  behind,  her  enemies, 
Promise  her  certain  ruin. 

Ant.  Feign  not  yourself  so  hapless,  my  Berinthia. 
Raise  your  dejected  thoughts,  be  merry,  come, 
Think  I  am  your  Antonio. 

Cast.   'Tis  not  wisdom 
To  let  our  passed  fortunes  trouble  us  ; 
Since,  Mere  they  bad,  the  memory  is  sweet 
That  we  have  past  them.     Look  before  you,  lady  ; 
The  future  most  concerneth. 

Diego,  a  domestic,  enters,  and  announces  that  Sebastiano  is  at 

the  gate. 

Aid.  Your  brother,  lady,  and  my  honor'd  friend. 
Why  do  the  gates  not  spread  themselves  to  open 
At  his  arrival  ?     Sforza,  'tis  Berinthia's  brother  ; 
Sebastiano,  th'  example  of  all  worth 
And  friendship,  is  come  after  his  sweet  sister. 

Ber.  Alas,  I  fear. 

Ant.  Be  not  such  a  coward,  lady,  he  cannot  come 
Without  all  goodness  waiting  on  him.     Sforza, 
Sforza,  I  say,  what  precious  time  we  loso  ' 
Sebastiano-:-!  almost  lose  mvself 


212  ENGLISH  DRAMATIC  POETS. 

In  joy  to  meet  him.     Break  the  iron  bars, 

And  give  him  entrance, — Sebastiano's  come 

Ber.  Sent  by  my  father  to 

Ant.  What  ?  to  see  thee.     He  shall  see  thee  here, 
Respected  like  thyself,  Berinthia, 
Attended  with  Antonio,  begirt 
With  armies  of  thy  servants. 

Sebastiano  enters,  with  Count  de  Monte  Nigro,  his  friend. 

Ant.  Oh,  my  friend. 

Seb.  'Tis  yet  in  question,  sir,  and  will  not  be 
So  easily  prov'd. 

Ant.  What  face  have  you  put  on  ?  am  I  awake, 
Or  do  I  dream  Sebastiano  frowns  ? 

Seb.  Antonio  (for  here  I  throw  off  all 
The  ties  of  love),  1  come  to  fetch  a  sister 
Dishonorably  taken  from  her  father ; 
Or  with  my  sword  to  force  thee  render  her  : 
Now  if  thou  be'st  a  soldier,  redeliver, 
Or  keep  her  with  the  danger  of  thy  person. 

Ant.  Promise  me  the  hearing, 
And  shalt  have  any  satisfaction, 
Becomes  my  fame. — 

Wer't  in  your  power,  would  you  not  account  it 
A  precious  victory,  in  your  sister's  cause, 
To  dye  your  sword  with  any  blood  of  him, 
Sav'd  both  her  life  and  honor  ? 

Seb.  Why,  would  you  have  me  think 
My  sister  owes  to  you  such  preservation  ? 

Ant.  Oh  Sebastiano! 
Thou  dost  not  think  what  devil  lies  at  home 
Within  a  sister's  bosom.     Catalina 
(I  know  not  with  wha+  worst  of  envy)  laid 
Force  to  this  goodly  building,  and  through  poison 
Had  robb'd  the  earth  of  more  than  all  the  world, 
Her  virtue. — 

Valasco  was  the  man  appointed  by 
That  goodly  sister  to  steal  Berinthia. 


MAID'S  REVENGE.  213 

And  lord  himself  of  this  possession, 
Just  at  that  time  ;  but  hear,  and  tremble  at  it, 
She  by  a  cunning  poison  should  have  breath'd 
Her  soul  into  his  arms  within  two  hours, 
And  so  Valasco  should  have  borne  the  shame 
Of  theft  and  murder. 

Seb.   You  amaze  me,  sir. 

Ami.   'Tis  true,  by  honor's  self :  hear  it  confirm'd; 
And  when  you  will,  1  am  ready. 

Seb.   I  cannot  but  believe  it.      Oh  Berinthia. 
I  'm  wounded  ere  I  fight. 

Ant.   Holds  your  resolve  yet  constant  ?  if  you  have 
Better  opinion  of  your  sword,  than  truth, 
I  am  bound  to  answer  :  but  I  would  I  had 
Such  an  advantage  'gainst  another  man, 
As  the  justice  of  my  cause  :  all  valor  rights 
But  with  a  sail  against  it. 

Seb.  But  will  you  back  with  me  then  .' 

Ber.   Excuse  me,  brother  :   I  shall  fall  too  soon 
Upon  my  sister's  malice,  whose  foul  guilt 
Will  make  me  expect  more  certain  ruin. 

Ant.  Now  Sebastiano 
Puts  on  his  judgment,  and  assumes  his  nobleness 
Whilst  he  loves  equity. 

Seb.   And  shall  I  carry  shame 
To  Villarczo's  house,  neglect  of  father. 
Whose  precepts  bind  me  to  return  with  Tier, 
Or  leave  my  life  at  Elvas  ?     I  must  on. 
I  have  heard  you  to  no  purpose.     Shall  Berinthia 
Back  to  A  vein  ' 

Ant.   Sir.  she  must  not  yet ; 
'Tis  dangerous. 

Seb.  Choose  thee  a  second  then  :  this  count  and  I 
Mean  to  leave  honor  here. 

ViU.   Honor  me,  sir. 

Ant.    'Tis  done.     Sebastiano  shall  report 
Antonio  just  :  and,  noble  Sforza,  swear 
Upon  my  sword  (Oh.  do  not  hinder  me) 


214  ENGLISH  DRAMATIC  POETS. 


If  victory  crown  Sebastiano's  arm, 
I  charge  thee  by  thy  honesty  restore 
This  lady  to  him  ;   on  whose  lip  I  seal 
My  unstain'd  faith. 

Antonio  falls  in  a  duel  by  the  sword  of  Sebastiano.  Sehastiano  is  dis- 
consolate for  having  killed  his  friend.  In  his  penitence,  he  is  visited 
by  Antonio's  sister,  Castabella,  disguised  as  a  page. 

Castabella.     Sebastiano. 

Cast.  He  that  hath  sent  you,  sir,  this  gift,  did  love  you  ; 
You  '11  say  yourself  he  did. 

Seb.  Ha,  name  him  prithee. 

Cast.  The  friend  I  came  from  was  Antonio. 

Seb.  Who  hath  sent  thee 
To  tempt  Sebastiano's  soul  to  act  on  thee 
Another  death,  for  thus  affrighting  me  ? 

Cast.  Indeed  I  do  not  mock,  nor  come  to  affright  you ; 
Heaven  knows  my  heart.      I  know  Antonio's  dead. 
But  'twas  a  gift  he  in  his  life  design'd 
To  you,  and  I  have  brought  it. 

Seb.  Thou  dost  not  promise  cozenage  :  what  gift  is  't  ? 

Cast.  It  is  myself,  sir ;   whilst  Antonio  iiv'd, 
I  was  his  boy  ;  but  never  did  boy  lose 
So  kind  a  master ;  in  his  life  he  promis'd 
He  would  bestow  me  (so  much  was  his  love 
To  my  poor  merit)  on  his,  dearest  friend, 
And  named  you,  sir,  if  heaven  should  point  out 
To  over-live  him,  for  he  knew  you  would 
Love  me  the  better  for  his  sake :  indeed 
I  will  be  very  honest  to  you,  and 
Refuse  no  service  to  procure  your  love 
And  good  opinion  to  me. 

Seb.  Can  it  be 
Thou  wert  his  boy  ?     Oh,  thou  shouldst  hate  me  then. 
Thou  art  false,  I  dare  not  trust  thee  ;   unto  him 
Thou  show'st  thee  now  unfaithful,  to  accept 
Of  me  :  I  kill'd  thy  master.     'Twas  a  friend 
He  could  commit  thee  to ;  I  only  was, 


MAID'S  REVENGE!  215 


Of  all  the  stock  of  men,  his  enemy, 
His  cruel'st  enemy. 

Cast.   Indeed  1  am  sure  it  was  ;  he  spoke  all  truth  ; 
And,  had  he  liv'd  to  have  made  his  will,  I  know 
He  had  bequeathed  me  as  a  legacy, 
To  be  your  boy  ;  alas,  I  am  willing,  sir, 
To  obey  him  in  it  :   had  he  laid  on  me 
Command,  to  have  mingled  with  his  sacred  dust 
My  unprofitable  blood,  it  should  have  been 
A.  most  glad  sacrifice,  and  ;t  had  been  honor 
To  have  done  him  such  a  duty  :  sir,  I  know 
You  did  not  kill  him  with  a  heart  of  malice, 
But  in  contention  with  your  very  soul 
To  part  with  him. 

Seb.   All  is  as  true 
As  oracle  by  heaven  ;  dost  thou  believe  so  ? 

Cast.   Indeed  I  do. 

Seb.  Yet  be  not  rash  ; 
'Tis  no  advantage  to  belong  to  me  ; 
I  have  no  power  nor  greatness  in  the  court 
To  raise  thee  to  a  fortune  worthy  of 
So  much  observance,  as  I  shall  expect 
When  thou  art  mine. 

Cast.  All  the  ambition  of  my  thoughts  shall  be 
To  do  my  duty,  sir. 

Seb.  Besides,  I  shall  afflict  thy  tenderness 
With  solitude  and  passion  :  for  I  am 
Onlv  in  love  with  sorrow,  never  merry, 
Wear  out  the  day  in  telling  of  sad  tales, 
Delight  in  sighs  and  tears  ;  sometimes  I  walk 
To  a  wood  or  river,  purposely  to  challenge 
The  boldest  echo  to  send  back  my  groans 
In  th'  height  I  break  them.     Come,  I  shall  undo  thee. 

Cast.  Sir,  I  shall  be  most  happy  to  bear  part 
In  any  of  your  sorrows  ;  I  ne'er  had 
So  hard  a  heart  but  I  could  shed  a  tear 
To  bear  my  master  company. 

Seb.  I  will  not  leave  thee,  if  thou  It  dwell  with  me. 


2ir>  ENGLISH   DRAMATIC  POETS. 

For  wealth  of  Indies  :  be  my  loved  boy, 
Come  in  with  me  ;   thus  I'll  begin  to  do 
Some  recompence  for  dead  Antonio. 

Berintliia  kills  her  >'■■■<  ther  Sebastiano  tleeping. 

Castabella.     Sebastiano. 

Cast.  Sir,  if  the  opportunity  I  use 
To  comfort  you  be  held  a  fault,  and  that 
1  need  not  distance  of  a  servant,  lay  it 
Upon  my  love  ;   indeed,  if  it  be  an  error, 
It  springs  out  of  my  duty. 

Seb.  Prithee,  boy,  be  patient. 
The  more  I  strive  to  throw  off  the  remembrance 
Of  dead  Antonio,  love  still  rubs  the  wounds 
To  make  them  bleed  afresh. 

Cast.  Alas,  they  are  past ; 
Bind  up  your  own  for  honor's  sake,  and  show 
Love  to  yourself;   pray  do  not  lose  your  reason. 
To  make  your  grief  so  fruitless.     I  have  procur'd 
Some  music,  sir,  to  quiet  those  sad  thoughts 
That  make  such  war  within  you. 

Seb.  Alas,  good  boy.  it  will  but  add  more  weight 
Of  dullness  on  me  !  I  am  stung  with  worse 
Than  the  tarantula,  to  be  cured  with  music  ; 
It  has  tlv  exactest  unity,  but  it  cannot 
Accord  my  thoughts. 

Cast.   Sir,  this  your  couch 
Seems  to  invite  some  small  repose  : 
Oh,  I  beseech  you  taste  it.     I  will  beg 
A  little  leave  to  sing.  [ShesiTigs. 

Berinthia  enters  softly. 
Cast.  Sweet  sleep  charm  his  sad  senses  : 
And  yentle  thoughts  let  fall 
Your  flowing  numbers  here  :   and  round  about 
Hover  celestial  angels  with  your  wings 
That  none  offend  his  quiet.     Sleep  begins 
To  cast  his  nets  o'er  me  too  ;   I'll  obey, 


THE  POLITICIAN.  217 


And  dream  on  him  that  dreams  not  what  I  am. 

[She  lies  down  by  him. 

Bcr.  Nature  doth  wrestle  with  me,  but  revenge 
Doth  arm  my  love  against  it ;  justice  is 
Above  all  tie  of  blood.     Sebastiano, 
Thou  art  the  first  shall  tell  Antonio's  ghost, 
How  much  I  lov'd  him. 

[She  stabs  him  upon  his  couch. 

Seb.  (waking.)  Oh,  stay  thy  hand,  Berinthia  !  no  : 
Thou  'st  done  't.     I  wish  thee  heaven's  forgiveness.      I  cannot 
Tarry  to  hear  thy  reasons  ;  at  many  doors 
My  life  runs  out,  and  yet  Berinthia 
Doth  in  her  name  give  me  more  wounds  than  these. 
Antonio,  Oh,  Antonio  :  we  shall  now 
Be  friends  again.  [Dies. 


THE  POLITICIAN:    A   TRAGEDY.     BY  JAMES  SHIRLEY. 

Marpisa  widow  of  Count  Altomarus  is  advanced  to  be  Queen  to  the  King 
of  Norway,  by  the  practices  of  her  paramour  Gothams.  She  has  by 
her  first  husband  a  young  son  Haraldus  ;  to  secure  whose  succession  to 
the  crown  by  the  aid  of  Gothams  (in  prejudice  of  the  king's  son,  the 
lawful  heir)  she  tells  Gothams  that  the  child  is  his.  He  believes  her, 
and  tells  Haraldus ;  who  taking  to  heart  his  mother's  dishonor,  and  his 
own  stain  of  bastardy,  falls  into  a  mortal  sickness. 

Queen.     Haraldus. 

Queen.  How  is  it  with  my  child  ? 

Har.  I  know  you  love  me : 
Yet  I  must  tell  you  truth,  I  cannot  live. 
And  let  this  comfort  you,  death  will  not  come 
I'nwelcome  to  your  son.     I  do  not  die 
Against  my  will ;  and  having  mv  desires. 
You  have  less  cause  to  mourn. 

Queen.  What  is  't  hath  made 
The  thought  of  life  unpleasant  ?   which  does  court 
Thy  dwelling  here,  with  all  delightf  fiiat  nature 


218  ENGLISH  DRAMATIC  POETS. 


And  art  can  study  for  thcc,  rich  in  all  things 
Thy  wish  can  be  ambitious  of,  yet  all 
These  treasures  nothing  to  thy  mother's  love, 
"Which  to  enjoy  thee  would  defer  a  while 
Her  thought  of  going  to  heaven. 

Har.  O  take  heed,  mother. 
Heaven  has  a  specious  ear,  and  power  to  punish 
Your  too  much  love  with  my  eternal  absence. 
I  beg  your  prayers  and  blessing. 

Queen.  Thou  art  dejected. 
Have  but  a  will,  and  live. 

Har.  'Tis  in  vain,  mother. 

Queen.  Sink  with  a  fever  into  earth ! 
Look  up,  thou  shalt  not  die. 

Har.  I  have  a  wound  within, 
You  do  not  see,  more  killing  than  all  fevers. 

Queen.  A  wound  ?  where  1  who  has  murther'd  thee  ? 

Har.   Gotharus 

Queen.  Ha  !  furies  persecute  him. 

Har.  O  pray  for  him  : 
It  is  my  duty,  though  he  gave  me  death. 
He  is  my  father. 

Queen.  How,  thy  father  ? 

Har.  He  told  me  so,  and  with  that  breath  destroy'd  me. 
I  felt  it  strike  upon  my  spirits,  mother  ; 
Would  I  had  ne'er  been  born  ! 

Queen.   Believe  him  not. 

Har.   Oh  do  not  add  another  sin  to  what 
Is  done  already  ;  death  is  charitable, 
To  quit  me  from  the  scorn  of  all  the  world. 

Queen.  By  all  my  hopes,  Gotharus  has  abused  thee. 
Thou  art  the  lawful  burthen  of  my  womb  ; 
Thy  father  Altomarus. 

Har.  Ha! 

Queen.  Before  whose  spirit  (long  since  taken  up 
To  meet  with  saints  and  troops  angelical) 
I  dare  again  repeat,  thou  art  his  son. 

Har.  Ten  thousand  blessings  now  reward  my  mother  ! 


THE  POLITICIAN.  219 


Speak  it  again,  and  I  may  live  :  a  stream 
Of  pious  joy  runs  through  ny? ;  to  my  soul 
You've  struck  a  harmony,  next  that  in  heaven. 
Can  you  without  a  blush  call  me  your  child, 
And  son  of  Altomarus  ?  all  that's  holy 
Dwell  in  your  blood  for  ever  :  speak  it  once, 
But  once  again. 

Quern.   Were  it  my  latest  breath  ; 
Thou'rt  his  and  mine. 

Har.  Enough,  my  tears  do  flow 
To  give  you  thanks  for  't ;  I  would  you  could  resolve  me 
But  one  truth  more:  why  did  my  lord  Gotharus 
Call  me  the  issue  of  his  blood  1 

Queen.  Alas, 
He  thinks  thou  art. 

Har.  What  are  those  words  ?   I  am 
Undone  again. 

Queen.  Ha  ! 

Har.   "Tis  too  late 
To  call  'em  back.     He  thinks  I  am  his  son. 

Queen.  I  have  confess'd  too  much,  and  tremble  with 
The  imagination.     Forgive  me,  child. 
And  heaven,  if  there  be  mercy  to  a  crime 
So  black,  as  I  must  now,  to  quit  thy  fears, 
Say  I've  been  guilty  of:  we  have  been  sinful, 
And  I  was  not  unwilling  to  oblige 
His  active  brain  for  thy  advancement,  by 
Abusing  his  belief  thou  wert  his  own. 
But  thou  hast  no  such  stain  ;  thy  birth  is  innocent, 
Or  may  I  perish  ever  :  'tis  a  strange 
Confession  to  a  child,  but  it  may  drop 
A  balsam  to  thy  wound.     Live,  my  Haraldus, 
If  not.  for  this,  to  see  my  penitence, 
And  with  what  tears  I'll  wash  away  my  sin 

Har.  I  am  no  bastard  then 

Queen.  Thou  art  not. 

Har.   But 
I  am  not  found,  while  vou  are  lost.     No  time 


220  ENGLISH  DRAMATIC   POETS. 


Can  restore  you.     My  spirits  faint 

Queen.   Will  nothing  comfort  thee  I 

Hur.  Give  me  your  blessing  ;  and,  within  my  heart, 
I'll  pray  you  may  have  many.      My  soul  flies 
'Bove  this  vain  world  :  good  mother,  close  mine  eyes. 

Queen.  Never  died  so  much  sweetness  in  his  years.* 


THE  BROTHERS  :  A  COMEDY.     BY  JAMES  SHIRLEY. 

Don  Ramires  leaves  his  son  Fernando  with  a  heavy  curse,  and  a  threat 
of  disinheriting,  if  he  do  net  renounce  Felisarda,  the  poor  niece  of  Don 
Carlos,  whom  he  courts,  when  by  his  father's  command  he  should  ad- 
dresa  Jacinta,  the  daughter  and  rich  heiress  of  Carlos,  his  younger 
brother  Francisco's  Mistress. 

Fernando.     Francisco. 

Fer.  Why  does  not  all  the  stock  of  thunder  fall  ? 
Or  the  fierce  winds,  from  their  close  caves  let  loose, 
Now  shake  me  into  atoms  ? 

Fran.  Fie,  noble  brother,  what  can  so  deject 
Your  masculine  thoughts  ?  is  this  done  like  Fernando, 
Whose  resolute  soul  so  late  was  arm'd  to  fight 
With  all  the  miseries  of  man,  and  triumph 
With  patience  of  a  martyr  1     I  observed 
My  father  late  come  from  you. 

Fer.  Yes,  Francisco : 
He  hath  left  his  curse  upon  me. 

Fran.   How  ? 

Fer.  His  curse :  dost  comprehend  what  that  word  carries, 
Shot  from  a  father's  angry  breath  ?  unless 
I  tear  poor  Felisarda  from  my  heart, 
He  hath  pronoune'd  me  heir  to  all  his  curses. 
Does  this  fright  thee,  Francisco  ?     Thou  hast  cause 
To  dance  in  soul  for  this  :  'tis  only  I 
Must  lose,  and  mourn  ;  thou  shalt  have  all  ;  I  am 

*  Mamillus  in  the  Winter's  Tale  in  this  manner  droops  and  dies  from  a 
conceit  of  his  mother's  dishonor. 


tup:  brothers.  221 


Degraded  from  my  birth,  while  he  affects 
Thy  forward  youth,  and  only  calls  thee  son, 
Son  of  his  active  spirit,  and  applauds 
Thy  progress  with  Jacinta,  in  whose  smiles 
Thou  may'st  see  all  thy  wishes  waiting  for  thee  ; 
Whilst,  poor  Fernando  for  her  sake  must  stand 
An  excommunicate  from  every  blessing, 
A  thing  that  dare  not  give  myself  a  name, 
But  flung  into  the  world's  necessities, 
Until  in  time,  with  wonder  of  my  wants, 
I  turn  a  ragged  statue,  on  whose  forehead 
Each  clown  may  carve  his  motto. 

Don  Ramires  is  seized  with  a  mortal  sickness,  but  forbids  Fernando  to 
approach  his  chamber  till  he  shall  send  for  him,  on  pain  of  his  dying 

cu>- 

Fernando. 
Fer.  This  turn  is  fatal,  and  affrights  me ;  but 
Heaven  has  more  charity  than  to  let  him  die 
With  such  a  hard  heart ;   'twere  a  sin,  next  his 
Want  of  compassion,  to  suspect  he  can 
Take  his  eternal  flight,  and  leave  Fernando 
This  desperate  legacy  ;  he  will  change  the  curse 
Into  some  little  prayer,  I  hope  ;  and  then 

Enter  Servant  and  Physician. 

Ser.  Make  haste,  I  beseech  you,  doctor. 

Phy.  Noble  Fernando. 

Fer.  As  you  would  have  men  think  your  art  is  meant 
Not  to  abuse  mankind,  employ  it  all 
To  cure  my  poor  sick  father. 

Phy.   Fear  it  not,  sir. 

[Exeunt  Physician  and  Servant 

Fer.  But  there  is  more  than  your  thin  skill  requir'd, 
To  state  a  health  ;   your  recipes,  perplext 
With  tough  names,  are  but  mockeries  and  noise, 
Without  some  dew  from  heaven,  to  mix  and  make  'em 
Thrive  in  the  application  :   what  now  ? 


222  ENGLISH  DRAMATIC   POETS. 


<r  Servant. 
■.   Oil  sir,  I  am  sent  for  the  confessor, 
The  doctor  fears  him  much  ;   your  brother  says 
You  must  have  patience  ;  and  not  enter,  sir; 
Your  father  is  a  going,  good  old  man, 
And,  having  made  him  heir,  he's  loth  your  present 
Should  interrupt  his  journey.  [Exit. 

Fcr.  Francisco  may  be  honest,  yci  methinks 
It  would  become  his  love  to  interpose 
For  my  access,  at  such  a  needful  hour, 
And  mediate  for  my  blessing;  not  assist 
Unkindly  thus  my  banishment.     I'll  not 
Be  lost  so  tamely.     Shall  my  father  die, 

And  not  Fernando  take  his  leave  1  I  dare  not. 

"  If  thou  dost  hope  I  should  take  oil"  this  curse, 
Do  n<5t  approach  until  I  send :"  'twas  so  ; 
And  'tis  a  law  that  binds  above  my  blood. 

Enter  Confessor  and  Servant. 
Make  haste,  good  father,  and  if  heaven  deny 
Him  life,  let  not  his  charity  die  too  : 
One  curse  may  sink  us  both.     Say  how  I  kneel, 
And  beg  he  would  bequeath  me  but  his  blessing. 
Then,  though  Francisco  be  his  heir,  I  shall 
Live  happy,  and  take  comfort  in  my  tears, 
When  I  remember  him  so  kind  a  father. 

Conf.  It  is  your  duty.  [Exit 

Fer.  Do  my  holy  office. 
Those  fond  philosophers  that  magnify 
Our  human  nature,  and  did  boast  we  had 
Such  a  prerogative  in  our  rational  soul, 
Convers'd  but  little  with  the  world,  confln'd 
To  cells,  and  unfrequented  woods,  they  knew  not 
The  fierce  vexation  of  community ; 
Else  they  had  taught,  our  reason  is  our  loss, 
And  but  a  privilege  that  exceedeth  sense 
By  nearer  apprehension  of  what  wounds, 
Te  know  ourselves  most  miserable.     Mv  heart 


THE  BROTHERS.  223 


Enter  Physician  and  Francisco. 
Is  teeming  with  new  fears. — I  la  !  is  he  dead  ? 

Phy.   Not  dead,  but  in  a  desperate  condition  ; 
And  so  that  little  breath  remains  we  have 
Remitted  to  this  confessor,  whose  office 
Is  all  that's  left. 

Fer.  Is  he  not  merciful  to  Fernando  yet  ? 
No  talk  of  me  ? 

Phy.   I  find  he  takes  no  pleasure 
To  hear  you  named  :  Francisco  to  us  all 
He  did  confirm  his  heir,  with  many  blessings. 

Fer.  And  not  left  one  for  me  ?     Oh  take  me  in, 
Thou  gentle  earth,  and  let  me  creep  through  all 
Thy  dark  and  hollow  crannies,  till  I  find 
Another  way  to  come  into  the  world ; 
For  all  the  air  I  breathe  in  here  is  poison'd. 

Fran.   We  must  have  patience,  brother,  it  was  no 
Ambitious  thought  of  mine  to  supplant  you  ; 
He  may  live  yet,  and  you  be  reconcil'd. 

Fer.   That  was  some  kindness  yet,  Francisco  :  but 
I  charge  thee  by  the  nearness  of  our  blood, 
When  I  am  made  tins  mockery  and  wonder, 
I  know  not  where  to  find  out  charity, 
If  unawares  a  chance  direct  my  weary 
And  wither'd  feet  to  some  fair  house  of  thine, 
Where  plenty  with  full  blessings  crowns  thy  table, 
If  mv  thin  face  betray  my  want  of  food, 
Do  not  despise  me,  'cause  I  was  thy  brother. 

Enter  Confessor. 

Fran.   Leave  these  imagin'd  horrors,  I  must  nol 
Live  when  my  brother  is  thus  miserable. 

Fer.  There's  something  in  that  face  looks  comfortably. 

Conf.  Your  father,  sir,  is  dead.      His  will  to  make 
Francisco  the  sole  master  of  his  fortunes 
Is  now  irrevocable :  a  small  pension 
He  hath  given  you  for  life,  which,  with  his  blessing, 
Is  all  the  benefit  I  bring. 


z-2-l  ENGLISH  DRAMATIC  POETS. 


Fer.   11a!  blessing  !  speak  it  again,  good  father. 

Conf.   I  did  apply  some  lenitives  to  soften 
His  anger,  and  prevail 'd ;  your  father  hath 
Reversed  that  heavy  censure  of  his  curse, 
And  in  the  place  bequeathed  his  prayer  and  blessing. 

Fer.  I  am  new  created  by  his  charity. 

Conf.  Some  ceremonies  are  behind  :  He  did 
Desire  to  be  interr'd  within  our  convent, 
And  left  his  sepulture  to  me ;  I  am  confident, 
Your  pieties  will  give  me  leave 

Fran.  His  will  in  all  things  I  obey,  and  yours 
Most  reverend  father  :  order  as  you  please 
His  body ;   we  may  after  celebrate 
With  all  due  obsequies  his  funeral. 

Fer.  Why  you  alone  obey  ?  I  am  your  brother  : 
My  father's  eldest  son,  though  not  his  heir. 

Fran.  It  pleas'd  my  father,  sir,  to  think  me  worthv 
Of  such  a  title ;  you  shall  find  me  kind, 
If  you  can  look  on  matters  without  envy. 

Fer.  If  I  can  look  on  matters  without  envy  ! 

Fran.  You  may  live  here  still. 

Fer.  I  may  live  hero,  Francisco ! 

Enter  a  Gentleman  with  a  letter. 
Conditions !  I  w  uld  not  understand 
This  dialect. 

Fran.    With  me,  from  madam ? 

Gent.  If  you  be  signior  Francisco. 

Fer.  Slighted  ! — 
I  find  my  father  was  not  dead  till  now. 
Crowd  not,  you  jealous  thoughts,  so  thick  into 
My  brain,  lest  you  do  tempt  me  to  an  act, 
Will  forfeit  all  again. 

Fernando  tells  Felisarda  that  his  father  ts  dead. 
Fer.  I  have  a  story  to  deliver  ; 
A  tale,  will  make  thee  sad :  but  I  must  tell  it. 
There  is  one  dead,  that  lov'd  thee  not. 


THE   P.ROTHKKS.  225 


Fel.  One  dead. 
That  lov'd  not  me?  this  carries,  sir,  in  nature 
No  killing  sound  ;*  I  shall  he  sad  to  know 
I  did  deserve  an  enemy  or  he  want 
A  charity  at  death. 

Fer.  Thy  cruel  enemy, 
And  my  best  friend,  hath  took  eternal  leave, 
And  's  gone,  to  heaven,  I  hope  :  excuse  my  tears ; 
It  is  a  tribute  I  must  pay  his  memory ; 
For  I  did  love  my  father. 

Fel.  Ha  !  your  father  ! 

Fer.  Yes,  Felisarda,  he  is  gone,  that  in 
The  morning  promis'd  many  years,  but  death 
Hath  in  a  few  hours  made  him  as  stiff,  as  all 
The  winds  and  winter  had  thrown  cold  upon  him, 
And  whisper'd  him  to  marble. 

Francisco  offers  to  restore  Fernando  his  birthright.     Fernando  dares  not 

take  it. 

Francisco.     Fernando.     Don  Carlos. 

Fran.   What  demands 
Fernando  ? 

Fer.   My  inheritance,  wrought  from  me 
By  thy  sly  creeping  to  supplant  my  birth, 
And  cheat  our  father's  easy  soul,  unworthily 
Betraying  to  his  anger,  for  thy  lust 
Of  wealth,  the  love  and  promise  of  two  hearts. 
Poor  Felisarda  and  Fernando  now 
Wither  at  soul,  and  robb'd  by  thee  of  that 
Should  cherish  virtue,  like  to  rifled  pilgrims 
Met  on  the  way,  and  having  told  their  story, 
And  dropt  their  even  tears  for  both  their  loss, 
Wander  from  one  another. 

Fran.   'Tis  not  sure 
Fernando,  but  his  passion  (that  obeys  not 

*  Like  the  reply  of  Manoah  in  Samson  Agonistes:  "  Sad,  but  not  saddest, 
the  desolation  of  a  hostile  city." 
PAR      IT.  16 


y26  ENGLISH  DRAMATIC  POETS. 


The  counsel  of  his  reason)  would  accuse  me: 

And  if  my  father  now  (since  spirits  lose  not 

Intelligence,  but  more  active  when  they  have 

Shook  off  their  chains  of  flesh),  would  leave  his  dwelling, 

And  visit  this  coarse*  orb  again  !  my  innocence 

Should  dare  the  appeal,  and  make  Fernando  see 

His  empty  accusations. 

Fer.  He  that  thrives 
By  wicked  art,  has  confidence  to  dress 
His  action  with  simplicity  and  shapes, 
To  cheat  our  credulous  natures :  'tis  my  wonder 
Thou  durst  do  so  much  injury,  Francisco, 
As  must  provoke  my  justice  to  revenge, 
Yet  wear  no  sword. 

Fran.  I  need  no  guard,  I  know 
Thou  dar'st  not  kill  me. 

Fer.  Dare  I  not '? 

Fran.  And  name 
Thy  cause :  'tis  thy  suspicion,  not  Francisco, 
Hath  wrought  thee  high  and  passionate.     To  assure  it; 
If  you  dare  violate,  I  dare  possess  you 
With  all  my  title  to  your  land. 

Car.  How  is  that  ? 

Fran.  Let  him  receive  it  at  his  peril. 

Fer.  Ha! 

Fran.   It  was  my  father's  act,  not  mine :  he  trembled 
To  hear  his  curse  alive ;  what  horror  will 
His  conscience  feel,  when  he  shall  spurn  his  dust, 
And  call  the  reverend  shade  from  his  blest  seat 
To  this  bad  world  again,  to  walk  and  fright  him ! 

Fer.  Can  this  be  more  than  a  dream  ? 

Fran.  (Gives  him   the  icrfl.)     Sir,  you    may  cancel    it.     But 
think  withal, 
How  you  can  answer  him  that's  dead,  when  he 
Shall  charge  your  timorous  soul  for  this  contempt 
To  nature  and  religion  ;  to  break 

*  Dirty  Planet. —  Sterne. 


LADY  OF  PLEASURE.  227 


His  last  bequest,  and  breath,  that  seal'd  your  blessings  ! 

Car.  These  are  fine  fancies. 

Fer.  (Returns  the  will.)     Here  ;  and  may  it  prosper, 
Where  my  good  father  meant  it:  I'm  overcome! 
Forgive  me,  and  enjoy  it.  [Is  going. 

His  father  Ramires   {supposed  dead)   appears  above,  with 

Felisarda. 

Ram.  Fernando,  stay. 

Fer.  Ha,  my  father  and  Felisarda  :  [Kneels. 

Are  they  both  dead  ! — I  did  not  think 
To  find  thee  in  this  pale  society 
Of  ghosts  so  soon. 

Fel.  I  am  alive,  Fernando  : 
And  Don  Ramires  still  thy  living  father. 

Fran.  \ou  may  believe  it,  sir,  I  was  of  the  council. 

Car.  Men  thought  you  dead. 

Ram.   I  lay  within 
The  knowledge  of  Francisco,  and  some  few, 
By  this  device  to  advance  my  younger  son 
To  a  marriage  with  Jacinta,  sir,  and  try 
Fernando's  piety,  and  his  mistress'  virtue : 
Which  I  have  found  worth  him,  and  my  acceptance. 
With  her  I  give  thee  what  thy  birth  did  challenge  : 
Receive  thy  Felisarda. 

Fer.  'Tis  a  joy 
So  flowing,  it  drowns  all  my  faculties. 
My  soul  will  not  contain,  I  fear,  but  loose, 
And  leave  me  in  this  extacy. 


THE  LADY  OF  PLEASURE  :    A  COMEDY.     BY   JAMES  SHIRLEY. 

Sir  Thomas  Bornewell  expostulates  with  liis  Lady  on  her  extravagance 

and  love  of  pleasure. 

Bornewell.     A  retina,  his  lady. 
Are.  I  am  angry  with  myself: 


-'-'->  ENGLISH  DRAMATIC  POETS. 


To  be  so  miserably  restrained  in  things, 

W  herein  it  doth  concern  your  love  and  honor 

To  see  me  satisfied. 

Bor.  In  what,  Aretina, 
I  tost  thou  accuse  me  ?  have  I  not  obey'd 
All  thy  desires,  against  mine  own  opinion ; 
Quitted  the  country,  and  remov'd  the  hope 
Of  our  return,  by  sale  of  that  fair  lordship 
We  liv'd  in  :  chang'd  a  calm  and  retire  life 
For  this  wild  town,  compos'd  of  noise  and  charge  ? 

Are.   What  charge,  more  than  is  necessary 
For  a  lady  of  my  birth  and  education  ? 

Bor.  I  am  not  ignorant  how  much  nobility 
Flows  in  your  blood,  your  kinsmen  great  and  powerful 
In  the  state  ;  but  with  this  lose  not  your  memory 
Of  being  my  wife :  I  shall  be  studious, 
.Madam,  to  give  the  dignity  of  your  birth 
All  the  best  ornaments  which  become  my  fortune  ; 
But  would  not  flatter  it,  to  ruin  both, 
And  be  the  fable  of  the  town,  to  teach 
Other  men  wit  by  loss  of  mine,  employ'd 
To  serve  your  vast  expences. 

Are.  Am  I  then 
Brought  in  the  balance  I  so,  sir. 

Bor.  Though  you  weigh 
Me  in  a  partial  scale,  my  heart  is  honest : 
And  must  take  liberty  to  think,  you  have 
Obey'd  no  modest  counsel  to  effect, 
Nay,  study  ways  of  pride  and  costly  ceremony  ; 
Your  change  of  gaudy  furniture,  and  pictures, 
Of  this  Italian  master,  and  that  Dutchman's  ; 
Your  mighty  looking-glasses,  like  artillery 
Brought  home  on  engines  ;  the  superfluous  plate 
Antick  and  novel  ;  vanities  of  tires, 
Four  score  pound  suppers  for  my  lord  your  kinsman. 
Banquets  for  t'  other  lady,  aunt,  and  cousins  ; 
And  perfumes,  that  exceed  all ;  train  of  servants, 
To  stifle  us  at  home,  and  show  abroad 


LADY  OF  PLEASURE.  229 


More  rnotly  than  the  French,  or  the  Venetian, 

About  your  coach,  whose  rude  postilion 

Must  pester  every  narrow  lane,  till  passengers 

And  tradesmen  curse  your  choaking  up  their  stalls, 

And  common  cries  pursue  your  ladyship 

For  hindering  of  their  market. 

Are.  Have  you  done,  sir  ] 

Bor.  I  could  accuse  the  gaity  of  your  wardrobe, 
And  prodigal  embroideries,  under  which, 
Rich  satins,  plushes,  cloth  of  silver,  dare 
Not  show  their  own  complexions  ;  your  jewels, 
Able  to  burn  out  the  spectators'  eyes, 
And  show  like  bonfires  on  you  by  the  tapers: 
Something  might  here  be  spared,  with  safety  of 
Your  birth  and  honor,  since  the  truest  wealth 
Shines  from  the  soul,  and  draws  up  just  admirers. 
I  could  urge  something  more. 

Are.  Pray,  do.     I  like 
Your  homily  of  thrift. 

Bor.  I  could  wish,  madam, 
You  would  not  game  so  much. 

Are.  A  gamester,  too  ! 

Bor.  But  are  not  come  to  that  repentance  yet, 
Should  teach  you  skill  enough  to  raise  your  profit ; 
You  look  not  through  the  subtilty  of  cards, 
And  mysteries  of  dice,  nor  can  you  save 
Charge  with  the  box,  buy  petticoats  and  pearls, 
A  iid  keep  your  family  by  the  precious  income ; 
Nor  do  I  wish  you  should  :  my  poorest  servant 
Shall  not  upbraid  my  tables,  nor  his  hire 
Purchas'd  beneath  my  honor  :  you  make  plav 
Not  a  pastime  but  a  tyranny,  and  vex 
Yourself  and  my  estate  by  't. 

Are.  Good,  proceed. 

Bor.  Another  game  you  have,  which  consumes  more 
Your  fame  than  purse,  your  revels  in  the  right, 
Your  meetings,  call'd  the  ball,  to  which  appear, 
As  to  the  c  mrt  of  pleasure,  all  your  gallants 


230  .l.ISH  DRAMATIC  POETS. 

And  ladies,  thither  bound  by  a  subpoena 

Of  Venus  and  small  Cupid's  high  displeasure: 

"Tis  but  the  Family  of  Love,  translated 

I  hi  i  more  costly  sin  ;  there  was  a  play  on  't ; 

And  had  the  poet  not  been  brib'd  to  a  modest 

Expression  of  your  antic  gambols  in  't, 

Some  darks  had  been  discover'd  ;  and  the  deeds  too ; 

In  time  he  may  repent,  and  make  some  blush, 

To  see  the  second  part  dane'd  on  the  stage. 

My  thoughts  acquit  you  for  dishonoring  me 

By  any  foul  act ;   but  the  virtuous  know, 

'Tis  not  enough  to  clear  ourselves,  but  the 

Suspicions  of  our  shame. 

Are.  Have  you  concluded 
Your  lecture  ? 

Bor.   I  have  done  ;  and  howsoever 
My  language  may  appear  to  you,  it  carries 
No  other  than  my  fair  and  just  intent 
To  your  delights,  without  curb  to  their  modest 
And  noble  freedom. 

Are.   I  '11  not  be  so  tedious 
In  my  reply,  but,  without  art  or  elegance, 
Assure  you  I  keep  still  my  first  opinion  ; 
And  though  you  veil  your  avaricious  meaning 
With  handsome  names  of  modesty  and  thrift, 
I  find  you  would  intrench  and  wound  the  liberty 
I  was  born  with.      Were  my  desires  unprivileged 
By  example  ;   while  my  judgment  thought  'em  fit, 
You  ought  not  to  oppose  :  but  when  the  practice 
And  tract  of  every  honorable  lady 
Authorize  me,  I  take  it  great  injustice 
To  have  my  pleasures  circumscrib'd  and  taught  me. 

[This  dialogue  is  in  the  very  spirit  of  the  recriminating  scenes  between  Lord 
and  Lady  Townley  in  the  Provoked  Husband.  It  is  difficult  to  believe,  but 
it  must  have  beer  Vanbrugh/s  prototype.] 

END    OF    PART    II. 


14  DAY  USE 

RETURN  TO  DESK  FROM  WHICH  BORROWED 

LOAN  DEPT.  kv 

RENEWALS  ONLY— TEL.  NO.  642-3405 

This  book  is  due  on  the  last  date  stamped  below,  or 
on  the  date  to  which  renewed. 
Renewed  books  are  subject  to  immediate  recall.        .   ow. 


OCT  RECEIVED 

2      MAR  1  ^  b*  "10 


PHI 


LOAN  DEPT 


RECTI  |  p     DEC 


tf«t 


29QC7 


■? 


0( 


LD  21- 


_ 


13ft) -7  PM  9  7 


arf6UEz 
LD 

.  195? 


9 — ra^ 


PECD  cir:  depje     esb  a  oyjig 


LD 


LD  21A-40m-2,'69 
(J6057sl0)476 — A-32 


General  Library 

University  of  California 

Berkeley 


D 

"96)3  6 


Yd     (bUI 


• 

* 

UNIVERSITY  OF  CALIFORNIA  LIBRARY 

•  • 

•                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                »               *      T 

